A Gentle Rain

by Deborah F. Smith

  The words hit me in the face. Hearing `em out loud was bad mojo. I had superstitions. I stood. "You know, the best friendships are nice little gardens that grow out of shared dirt and manure. You and me, we got so much shit between us, we could grow tomatoes the size of watermelons. And I mean that in a good way. I ain't tellin' you nothil'."

  Phil nodded. "Can I be of help with Joey's situation?"

  "The only help I can use now is from God. And I don't get the feelin' He's much interested. I keep lookin' for signs He's sendin' us some hope, but so far, nope. I'm not even sure there is a God." I jabbed my cigar in a crystal ashtray. "`Scuse me. On that heathen note, I'm goin' downstairs. I need to make use of my wicked past if I'm gonna woo this woman. I got a samba to dance."

  Kara

  "Next, we're going to try a variation of the steps," I was telling Lily. "This side step looks similar to the Conga."

  "The what-a?"

  "Don't worry. I'll show you."

  "Everybody's looking at us. And the music's stopped."

  I hadn't noticed. Dancing the samba while surrounded by pepper lights, beer aromas, and cowboy music required intense concentration. Lily huddled close to me, staring around us. Now I stared, too.

  The smiling dance-floor crowd had cleared a large space, leaving Lily and me in the center. The band members put their heads together, apparently discussing their next selection. Ben walked across the scuffed wooden floor toward me. There is something about the magic of dance, the intimate lighting, the provocative music. Anywhere in the world, in any century, there has been magic in a handsome man walking towards a surprised woman under dance lights.

  "Lily, I'm stealin' your dance partner," Ben said, then took Lily's hand and escorted her back to Mac. She gaped at me over one shoulder. I stood alone in the open space, fighting an urge to fidget and adjust my pony-tailed hair. I had never put much value in personal style. But still, I primped.

  As Ben returned, his dark eyes went to my hair. He seemed ... commanding. Not that there's anything wrong with a little charming machismo. "Set that mane free," he said. I pulled the scrunchie off and stuck it in a pocket of my skirt. My hair poofed into the empty air around my face like cotton candy. He held out a tanned, callused hand. "Warta break a sweat?"

  I placed my already sweaty hand in his. "Be gentle with me. I've never two-stepped before."

  The band burst into a classic samba rhythm, heavy on the drums. Ben pulled me to him. "Who said anything about two-steppin'?"

  And then we were off A samba can be slow and polite or a whirling sex act of sensual movement. Lead and follow, flirt and retreat, sweat and smile. I was dimly aware of the crowd merging into a blur, my hips gyrating, my head spinning as Ben twirled me, pushed me, pulled me, flexed in rhythm to my body. He moved with the stunning, sensual grace of a trained dancer.

  El Diablo could dance a mean samba. Of course!

  We gyrated to a stop with me arched backwards, my pelvis molded to his thigh, his arm making a fulcrum for the arch of my back. The crowd applauded wildly. Mac, Lily, Joey and the rest of our group cheered. A butterfly blush of arousal burned my nose and cheeks, and when I looked up at Ben the coarse desire in his expression made my knees weak.

  "Sweatin'?" he asked.

  "Indeed," I whispered.

  Late that night at the ranch, when they thought nobody was watchin', Mac and Lily danced under a bright Florida moon. I saw `em from the window of Joey's bedroom.

  Mac stared awkwardly over Lily's head. His lips moved as he counted one-two, one-two. Lily balanced her left foot, the one that dragged a little when she walked, on the toe of his sandy cowboy boot.

  Mac carefully shifted his foot to carry her weight. He was a large man, over six-four, and she was a small woman. She danced the slow dance on tiptoe with her good leg, the right one. Her head came to just to the collar of Mac's short-sleeve plaid shirt. She kept her eyes fixed on his right suspender, the one with the daisy embroidered in the webbing.

  Mac held her hands up high, in each ofhis callused palms. He handled her as if she were a newborn calf. They had no music, and only moonlight. But for the first time in their lives, they had the courage to dance. Karen had given `em that. And she'd given it to me, too. Magic.

  Plain and simple, but magic.

  Chapter 18

  Ben

  We were all upstairs at the cattle barn the next night. I was helping Karen make popcorn. We kept about a foot of space between us. But it wasn't empty air. It was filled with a samba.

  Joey yelled, "It's the mean girl! She's on TV!"

  Mac and Lily set up a commotion too, pointing at the big television and calling for us to come see. Miriam and Lula squealed. Karen and I went over for a look. "She's on TV," Lily echoed, wide-eyed.

  "Tami Jo Jackson, in the flesh. All of it," Miriam said.

  There lay Tami Jo, preenin' and posh' i1 a white bikini that was more string than cloth. The men in the crew, except for shy Roy and Possum, stared at all that bare blonde skin as if Christmas had come early. Dale covered her eyes. "Oh, yes, that's a harlot," she said. Mac tried not to gape but Lily gaped enough for both of `em.

  Tami Jo smiled her cool, mule-eating-briars smile. She was at some fancy hotel, poolside, on a lounge chair, with palm trees and flamingoes behind her. An announcer was saying, "Watch Tami Jo Jackson and all the other world-class beauties of barrel racing put the grrrrr in cowgrrrrl! Labor Day weekend at The Groves arena just outside Orlando, Florida! It's the most exciting all-girl sport in rodeo! Winner takes all! Don't miss it! The Million Dollar Cowgirl Barrel Racing Ride-Off! Only on World Sports Network!"

  "I'll be there, ready to ride fast and hard," Tami Jo Jackson purred into the camera.

  The TV went back to baseball.

  We were all kind of stunned. Nobody said nothing after that.

  Until the next morning.

  Kara

  "We want to enter you and Estrela in that barrel-racing contest," Joey announced at breakfast. "If you have to wear a bikini, we promise not to look."

  Slowly I placed a platter of bran muffins on the table and sat down. Mac, Lily and the others looked eagerly at Ben and me. Clearly, a conspiracy of purpose had been born. They were so sincere, and so naive. They had no idea what a major sports competition entailed. They simply believed in me, and in Estrela. I looked at Ben for help. His grim expression said he wasn't in a mood to explain practical realities that morning. "Let's talk about this after breakfast," he ordered. "In fact, I need to think. about it for oh, a month or so before the subject comes up, again."

  "But the deadline for entry fees is two weeks from now," Dale said. "We looked it up on Joey's computer. Lula helped us."

  When Ben, Miriam and I glared at her, Lula muttered into her muffins and refused to glance up.

  "On the computer it says it's open to anybody in the whole world who wants to go to Orlando and race," Lily noted. "Anybody."

  "We're anybody," Bigfoot said. "All of us right here. We're anybody."

  "Si," Cheech agreed.

  "It's only d-down near Orlando," Mac offered. "That's not far to take Estrela in the horse trailer."

  Possum, who often crept under the table during intense group conversations, instead sat up straighter and looked proud. "I'll make Estrela a pad for her head. So she won't hurt herself when she throws her head during the trip." Trailers made her nervous.

  "Roy and me will help watch her at the arena," Dale said. "To make sure nobody gets close enough for her to bite them. She can just bite us. We're family."

  Lula, looking resigned to her role as the group's scapegoat secretary, pushed a colorful print-out across the plank tabletop toward Ben. "There's the entry info. Take a look at the rules. Especially the entry fee. That oughta settle this discussion. I tried to tell `em."

  Ben chewed his lower lip, then gave up and took the print-out. "Awright, let's get this over with." He scanned the rules. "This shindig isn't a regulation barrel racing event. Not sponsored by any of
the big rodeo or breeders' associations. It's some kind of one-shot promotional stunt. Let's see ... two days of qualifying rounds leaden' up to a final top-twenty round ... cable sports network's covering the to-do from start to finish, hmmm ... well, well ... guess where this here event takes place. The big arena is part of J.T. Jackson's new resort. Says here The Groves is the `fabulous new vineyards, winery, stables, golf courses, hotels and luxury homes of acclaimed developer J.T. Jackson, the Donald Trump of Florida real estate. Business tycoon and showman."'

  Ben looked at me for comment, but I was too worried to do more than listen. We both glanced around the table at the hopeful faces. He started to say something else, probably something negative about the gimmicky event Jackson had cooked up to promote his real estate empire, then chewed his lower lip again and went back to reading the entry requirements.

  "Awright, let's see what else. One-million-dollar first prize. One million. Dollars. Godawmighty. For real. A million. The event is open to the first one-hundred entrants. No qualifying rules. All comers welcome, professional or amateur, any breed or mixed-breed of horse ... event takes place Friday, Saturday and Sunday of Labor Day weekend ... and all you gotta do to e n t e r is ... "

  He stopped. He squinted, frowned harder, pursed his mouth, squinted again, then sat back and laid the print-out on the table beside his untouched plate of tofu-egg scramble with soy cheese. "The entry fee is fifty thousand dollars."

  I had just taken a sip oforange juice. It went down the wrong way and came up in a gasping cough. Lily patted my back. Though fifty-thousand was small by the standards of the Whittenbrook world, as a fee for a sports contest it was ludicrous.

  Ben shook his head. "Baby brother? Mac, Lily? Anybody? Who can tell me how much fifty-thousand dollars is?"

  No one answered. They only formed more resolute expressions. Lula sighed. "I tried to explain it, Ben. I said to `em, `It's two brand-new, regular-sized pick-up trucks. It's a single-wide house trailer. It's what the principal at Saginaw County High makes in a whole year.' So they know it's a lot of money. But they've got it in their heads that miracles happen now that Karen's amongst us. Just like the bank loan got taken care of and the mermaid park got a movie deal and the conservation group bought Tom D. Dooley's land. They think this'll work out, too."

  Ben scrubbed a hand over his face, leaned on his palm, and said wearily, "Y'all, this ain't about havin' a little good luck. Let me try to explain the facts to you . . . "

  "Kenji, we don't care about facts," Joey said softly. "We don't even know what `facts' are."

  Ben rubbed his forehead, again. "But now, look. Here's the thing. This barrel race is something special. They only want the best horses and riders. They've got Tami Jo Jackson and her world champ barrel horse, and they'll get a whole bunch of other gals and horses in the same league. They've probably already got horses and riders from other countries-Canada and Mexico and such. The top people. The top horses."

  He held up the print-out. "This ain't about giving regular folks and regular bosses their big chance. That'd be like holding a golf tournament and inviting weekend duffers to play against Tiger Woods. Or ilvitin' your grandma to race her minivan at Daytona. Naw. This here is for rich folk and their champion barrel-racing horses. This here is about giving big publicity to big-time pros and to the big-time sponsors and to J.T. Jackson for his big-time resort."

  Lily folded her hands. "We'll help you raise the fifty-thousand dollars."

  Mac nodded. "Me and L-Lily got two-hundred d-dollars in the bank. You can have it."

  Cheech and Bigfoot thumbed their chests. "We got piggy banks," Bigfoot said.

  "Dale and me will give our church tithes for the next six months," Roy said. Dale nodded firmly.

  "I'll give you my coin collection," Possum said. "I have five jars full."

  Ben groaned. "Look, y'all ... forget about the money. Let's talk facts, here. Estrela ain't no barrel horse. She's never even competed in a show. She's never even run full-out in practice. Hell, until lately she was just kickin'the barrels."

  "But Ben, honestly, she and I have been concentrating on form and finesse," I interjected. "We consider speed to be secondary to technical ..."

  Ben gave me a dark look. Why was I arguing Estrela's competitive merits? The idea of an unskilled, untested, unseasoned horse-and rider entering a world-class competition was, indeed, ludicrous. And yet a tiny flame of excitement flickered inside me.

  "Karen believes in Estrela," Joey said fervently. "See?"

  Ben scowled harder at me. I had the good grace to respond with a sheepish scowl of my own. He thumped the entry rules with a callused forefinger. "I'm sorry, but there's no way we're coming up with fifty grand to enter some stupid contest that Estrela ain't got no chance ofwin in'-in fact, she'd be a joke and a laughing stock and make a fool out of all of us. I don't want to be made a fool of, especially in front of J.T. Jackson. We're not wastin' money on it. That's that. I don't want to hear any more about this."

  Joey's eyes filled with tears. The rhythmic shush of his oxygen tank seemed to grow louder as he breathed faster. I watched Ben wince at the sound. "Benji, Estrela's our horse." Joey waved a pale hand at the whole table. "We bought her together. We saved her from bein' turned into dog food. We believed in her. Ben, you always say Cracker horses are as smart as any horse. Just like you say we're as smart as regular people. And ... and so that means we're as smart as any rich horse owners. So we say ... Estrela's a real good horse and Karen's a real good rider. We think her and Estrela can win. Because it doesn't matter what a horse or a person can't do right, or what they're not so smart about, it's about what they're all about inside, and what they are good at. You say that, all the time. Don't you believe it?"

  Checkmate.

  Ben looked stricken. Joey looked stricken. Mac and Lily and the others, stricken. Me, stricken. Ben and I both knew this was sheer folly. I tried to think of some discreet way to pay the entry fee without anyone knowing. Impossible. For once, I would have to deal with real-world deprivations in a real-world way. "I have an idea," I said. "Let's give Estrela-and me-a test. If she and I pass the test, then we'll find some way to raise fifty-thousand dollars and enter the barrel racing contest."

  Ben's expression lightened. "There you go. Perfect. And I got the perfect test. Fourth of July. The Saginaw County Open Horse Show over in Fountain Springs. Ten bucks'll put Estrela into the barrel race. I'll make y'all a promise. If she so much as places in the top three, I swear to you I'll figure out how to get the fifty grand for her to compete in Orlando."

  Smiles. Nods. "We're going to Orlando for the world barrel racing show!" Joey said happily.

  Mac added solemnly, "But if Karen has to wear a b-bikini we all have to look the other way."

  Lily clasped my hand. "I'll get you a shirt to wear over the bikini. With daisies."

  Ben's test was brilliant diplomacy. I gazed at the confident faces around us then settled on Ben's wearily satisfied eyes. He nodded to me.

  I nodded back.

  We understood that diplomacy is merely deception, after all.

  "I'm sorry you're gonna get humiliated on the Fourth of July," Ben said. "Seems, well, an unpatriotic thing to do to you on the holiday."

  I continued brushing Estrela's silver mane. Ben stood safely on the outside of the fence. Estrela wrinkled her lips and bared her teeth at him, but it seemed more of a token gesture, now. "I'm only sorry that Joey, Mac, Lily and the others will be disappointed by the results. I've galloped Estrela around the barrels at fairly high speed. I've urged her to put her heart into it. Her technique is excellent, her turns, superb. But she refuses to ... to burry. She's not interested in racing. She prefers ... cruising. I have to credit her for having such a sane and unpressured approach to life. At the same time, I do wish she had the incentive to run."

  "Wouldn't matter if she did. Just `cause a frog wants to be a princess don't mean she can be one. Champion barrel horses are trained like pro athletes. The horses-and the
women-who compete in the big-time show circuits are the cream of the crop. They live, breath and sleep this stuff Those gals spend big money on trainers and gear. And big money on horses. They spend years breeding the best barrel racers, just hoping for a champ."

  His cynicism bothered me. Here I was, trying to be both realistic and a dreamer. "I understand," I said with a little edge to my voice. "When everyone sees how hopeless it is, they'll forget all about their ridiculous faith in us. Don't worry. Breeding and training always win out over sheer heart, correct? Your test will prove exactly what you hope it proves."

  Ben was silent for a moment, studying me. "You got no idea what I hope for," he said. "Just like I got no idea what you hope for."

  He walked away.

  Chapter 19

  Kara

  Welcome to small town Florida on Independence Day. Pranksters had placed American flags and sparklers in the trickling statuary hand of Bob "Ponce de Leon" Hope. Fountain Springs' square, with its ornate faux-Moroccan courthouse, was the centerpiece of a craft show, clogging demonstrations, bluegrass bands, patriotic speeches and church bake sales.

  I inhaled the aroma of barbecue, hamburgers, hotdogs and roasted ears of corn. Those and other mouth-watering scents wafted from a long grill beside the horse show's modest, concrete-block concession stand. The concession stand offered an eclectic menu including hush puppies, fried shrimp, saw palmetto cole slaw and Cuban black beans on yellow rice. The sweet fragrance of iced watermelon rose from large coolers, mingling with the tang of freezing-cold beer and the musky drift ofpot from some hidden clutch of teenagers. If only my stomach weren't tied in knots.

  As I paced beside Ben's horse trailer I watched carefree spectators dine at picnic tables under spreading oaks. Lily brought me a huge paper cup of sweet iced tea decorated with large lemon wedges and mint. I donned the tea nervously, adding a sugar buzz to my anxiety. Beside me, tied loosely to the trailer with her water tub and netted bag of hay at hand, Estrela watched the equine action with pricked ears and flared nostrils.