by Lisa Wysocky
Then I asked Lars to find my phone in the tack room and call Brent back to the stalls. And Darcy. Please, bring Darcy.
Cat’s Horse Tip #10
“Check the tightness of a girth or cinch between the horse’s legs, not on the horse’s side, as the thickness of the saddle pad can give a false reading.”
18
GRIM FACES SURROUNDED ME. EVEN before I was done explaining about the girth, billets, and the saddle, Noah had the police on the phone. The university guys showed up in record time and took my precious Steuben brand saddle into evidence.
“This can’t have happened,” said Jon while running his fingers through his short, dark hair. “Ambrose or one of his counter parts is here all the time. I’m here. And when I’m not, or Cat’s not, the tack room is locked.”
“When was the last time you used the saddle, ma’am?” Ma’am again. I was twenty-nine. Maybe I needed to do something with my hair. The words came from a young, eager-faced cop. He looked as if he had been on the force for all of two minutes, but his question was a good one. When had I last used my hunt seat saddle?
“Not since I arrived on the show grounds,” I said. “Possibly last Tuesday, at home. We loaded Wednesday and drove in on Thursday.”
The cop looked at me and I knew what he was thinking. The billets could have been cut at home. Unlikely, but possible. Or, more possible but still unthinkable, was that they had been cut shortly after our arrival, possibly at the same time as Mike Lansing’s cinch. I shuddered. Mike had serious injuries. It could just as easily have been me lying there in the hospital as Mike.
“You two the only ones with the combination to the tack room lock?” the young guy asked, pointing first to Jon, and then to me.
“I have it,” Darcy said.
“I have it, too,” added Noah, then he explained as the cop lasered in on him. “Cat and I have been good friends for many years. She gave it to me some time ago, when I was managing another show. Jon got food poisoning and was back at the hotel for much of the competition. I helped out some.
“It’s the same lock, isn’t it?” Noah asked me.
I nodded. It was an unusual green, clover-shaped padlock, one my dad gave me years ago. One of the only things he had ever given me.
Brent and Martin stood on the fringe of the group, observing. Martin was aware of the cop, but his eyes were watching everyone else. Brent’s eyes were on me. When he heard that Noah had a key to my tack room he humphed, turned, and walked away. I did not have time to address his jealousy now. I looked at Martin and he gave me a half smile and a nod. It would be okay. He’d talk to Brent.
“Isn’t it possible,” I asked, “that someone could have crawled over the wall of the tack room from another stall?”
The cop looked around. Gigi was next to the tack room, and a cute Haflinger was behind it. There was an aisle to the front and on the left. Some trainers had decorative fabric coverings for their tack rooms that included two sides and the top. We just had the side coverings, because a cover prevented airflow and trapped too much heat.
“Maybe,” he said.
The campus cop then eyed Jon, and then Noah. No way. No possible way that either of these two men had a hand in this. The idea was unfathomable. The cop snapped his notebook closed and said to me, “Get a new lock. We’ll be in touch.” Then he walked away.
I was at a loss. In addition to my muscles feeling sore, I felt violated. Someone had been in my tack room with the specific intent to harm me. Until now, all of the events swirling around the competition had been concerning, heartbreaking even, but peripheral. This directly affected me, was about me, was about hurting me. I was furious, but I needed to channel my anger. There was a class to prepare for.
“Our immediate challenge,” I said to the group still assembled around me, “is that I have no saddle for tonight’s competition. We either need to buy one or borrow one.”
The hunt seat saddle the police had taken away was a top of the line Steuben that had cost several thousand dollars. It could be repaired, but not in time for tonight’s class, and certainly not while it sat on an evidence shelf.
The best thing about the saddle was that it had the uncanny ability to fit 90 percent of my horses. Getting a good saddle fit can be a trainer’s nightmare. If you consider that a trainer might bring five or six horses to a show, then ride each of those horses in classes that required a hunt seat, saddle seat, western, or even a Dressage saddle––and that each saddle had to fit each horse–– that could add up to a lot of saddles.
Saddles had to fit the horse through the shoulder, not be so tight as to cause discomfort, or so loose as to rock on the horse’s back and cause a safety issue for the rider. The saddle also had to clear the horse’s withers, the bony protrusion at the base of the horse’s neck, by several inches. It had to fit so that the seat was level for the rider and so it provided even coverage and pressure on the horses back. If any one of these things (along with several others) did not happen, then the saddle did not fit and neither the horse nor the rider could perform at top level.
Finding a saddle that fit Bob was going to be tough. Like a lot of older horses, he was not perfectly symmetrical left to right. The right side of his body was slightly rounder than the left, had more muscle. He also had a large cecal swing. The cecum is an internal organ that sits to the right of many of the horse’s other organs. It is the equine equivalent of the appendix, but in the horse it is necessary to digestion. Basically, the equine cecum is a fermentation and breakdown vat for digestion of tough carbohydrates, such as hay. Food can stay in the cecum for up to seven hours, so if the horse has eaten a lot of hay, the cecum will expand the right side of the horse’s mid section. When you see a horse walking toward you, you can see his belly swing from left to right. With a horse with a big “cecal swing,” the right side of the horse’s belly is larger than the left. That was Bob.
Jon headed to the vendor booths to see of any of the tack shops there had anything that might fit, and Noah began to canvas the exhibitors for spare hunt seat saddles. Before too long I had a dozen saddles stacked up on various racks in my aisle. Darcy helped sort through them.
“If we don’t find anything, I can scratch Petey and you can use my saddle on Bob tonight,” she said.
My jaw dropped so far at her offer that I almost had to pull my chin back into my face. Her words were extremely generous.
“I mean,” she continued, “Bob’s owner is a loyal client. Plus, he’s an orthopedic doctor and you seem to need his services regularly. Wouldn’t want to mess that up.”
Darcy was right that Bob’s owner was loyal. Doc Williams had been my first client and had patched me up over the years if not regularly, then at least several times. And, I knew he was planning to come watch his horse compete this evening.
While Darcy’s thought was kind, it was not feasible. In addition to Bob’s cecal swing, Petey was a tall, angular horse, while Bob was mid-sized and square. Even my Steuben had not fit Petey and I knew her saddle would not fit Bob.
After we had tried on all of the saddles we were down to two, a synthetic Wintec all-purpose English saddle that Mike Lansing had thrown into the trailer in case he needed to school one of his horses in the rain, and a nice Pessoa that Reed Northbrook apparently had lying around. I was dying to try the Pessoa, as they were top jumping saddles, but it was a little too narrow at the top of the shoulder for Bob and a little too wide in the lower part of the shoulder. The Wintec fit better, but was darker in color and did not match Bob’s bridle––an important factor in top-level competition. Presentation was key.
I looked at the Pessoa, sighed, and went with the Wintec. Darcy sent Agnes and Lars to the local mall to find both dark brown and black shoe polish so we could darken Bob’s bridle. Between the two colors, we should be able to mix a temporary shade onto the leather to get a match.
I walked to the Lansing’s stalls to thank Judy for the saddle and found her sitting alone in her tack room. She looke
d utterly exhausted.
“How is Mike doing?” I asked.
“Good,” she said, brightening some. “His surgery went well. He will be out of competition for several months, of course, but he hopes to be back on show grounds in a few days. That’s probably optimistic, but it motivates him. How are you?”
“Sore. I’m going to try out that vibration plate, and see if I can get a massage. I know I was lucky. The fall brought home to me that someone really is gunning for us. To be honest, it scares me to death.”
Judy nodded. “Whoever it is knows what he or she is doing. I just wish Noah or the police, or someone would figure out what this person’s agenda is so we could take more precautions.”
“You ever think about packing up and going home?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not going to let some sicko scare me out of my livelihood. Besides, Mike doesn’t need to travel just yet. I’ve been spending nights at the hospital with him and I can tell that he is still in a lot of pain.”
No wonder Judy looked so tired.
“Judy, please let us help you. I have a good crew here. We can walk horses, feed, whatever you need. If I can’t do it I’ll find someone who can.”
“Thanks Cat. I’ll let you know.”
I knew she would never ask. Judy was a do-it-yourself kind of woman. I vowed to talk to Darcy and Melanie to see if they, and Hunter and Bubba, could ease Judy’s load.
On the way back to our stalls I ran into Noah.
“Just the person I was looking for,” he said as he fell into step with me. “A few days ago you said Cam Clark told you Mike’s cinch had been tampered with. How did he know that?”
I thought back. “He said he overheard security talking outside the show office.”
“Security, as in our student security?” Noah asked. “Or as in an exhibitor’s hired outside security?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll ask him. The last thing I need is our kids shooting off their mouths about stuff they do not need to discuss publicly.”
I watched Noah walk off and for the first time in my life I wondered if his questions had hidden meaning. Could Noah possibly be the one with the agenda? Reality was, someone tried to hurt me, attempted to kill me. No one knew I planned to ride Sally that afternoon. No one except my barn crew––and Noah. It was public knowledge that I was riding in an evening class with Bob, because it was listed on the entry board outside the show office and also in the show program.
Did someone intend for me to fall off in the middle of a crowded class? If so, the damages would have been far worse. I could easily have been trampled, and other horses and riders could have fallen when they stumbled over me, or swerved to get out of my way. Or, did the timing of my fall not matter? Was it just the fall itself that was important? I didn’t have a clue.
I should be afraid, I thought. In fact, I should pack up and go home. But I knew I wouldn’t. First, I was too stubborn. I had come to compete, and compete I would. Second, this new show was important to the horse industry. There really was an unheard of level of cooperation and camaraderie between breed affiliations and discipline. Third, in addition to being honored that I was invited to compete, I wanted to support Noah. And fourth, there was the promise of a twenty-thousand dollar bonus if one of my horses or I had the most points throughout the competition.
I knew it was a long shot, but we were doing well so far, and my barn badly needed a new roof. Most of any bonus money would go to the owner of the horse if the horse won it, but my contracts with my owners stipulated that I received a share. Finally, like Debra, I was afraid if we all dispersed, that we would never find out who was behind this, or why.
No. I had no time to be afraid. We all just needed to be extra cautious.
Cat’s Horse Tip #11
“A horse behaves toward you exactly as you behave toward him.”
19
I EASED MY STIFFENING MUSCLES over to the spa and waited in a short line for a turn on the vibration plate. Jon and Gigi were just ahead of me, and Sloan Peters and Coach Jenn were in front of them.
“Want to step on with us?” asked Jon.
“Sure, if it’s okay with the spa. Will Gigi mind?”
“No, she almost falls asleep. Maybe you can get a massage after. Richard might have a spot open, as I just heard Sloan reschedule her appointment.”
One thing about Richard Valdez was that he was amazing with both horses and riders. I caught his eye and made a hand motion, and just like that I was booked into Sloan’s former spot.
I have to say, I liked the vibration plate so much that I asked about ordering one for the barn. Ten minutes on that thing and I was as loose as a goose. In fact, I was so relaxed by the time I got to Richard’s table that I almost fell asleep. Okay, so maybe I did fall asleep. I normally do not drool during a massage. I booked another appointment with Richard for the following day and walked part way back to my stalls with Jenn, producer at the Horse Radio Network.
“You okay after your fall?” she asked.
I didn’t wonder how Jenn knew. Plus, Jenn was media. It was her job to know.
“Yeah, getting a bit stiff, but if I keep moving I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe after this event is over you can guest on Horses in the Morning and we can talk about what to do after a fall. I’m sure you’ve had your share.”
I agreed that I had, then added, “Maybe Richard can join me. We can cover it from both angles.”
“Excellent idea,” said Jenn and she reversed direction to talk to Richard about the idea.
Brent met me in the aisle with a box of apple doughnuts, the plain, old-fashioned kind with none of that gooey or sugary stuff on top that ruins them. There was also a small tub of apple butter to dip the doughnuts in. It was the perfect peace offering. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he kissed my cheek. “My jealousy is messing us up. I’m working on it.”
I would have replied but my mouth was stuffed with the remains of warm, greasy dough.
Darcy and I met in the bathroom with our wardrobe bags and makeup kits. With many students it was awkward to compete together, and I tried to schedule classes so that it rarely happened. That wasn’t the case with Darcy, however. She knew down to her core that the true competition was with herself. If I placed ahead of her, well, she knew if it wasn’t me it would be someone else. She did not take it personally, as other riders or their parents might.
I thought her dad, Mason Whitcomb, might come see her ride. I had even emailed and texted him reminders, but the only reply I had gotten was a cryptic, TELL DARCE 2 HAVE FUN. He was a wealthy, loving, but often-absent parent who gave money rather than his personal time or attention. Still, Darcy didn’t seem to mind. We all understood that Mason would be there when it really mattered.
Darcy’s mother was another matter. She was currently living in Europe and had just married husband number four––or was it five––, a minor Bulgarian prince. She was obsessed with fashion and didn’t want anyone to know that she could have a daughter as old as seventeen. Mommy swept into town several times a year to drag Darcy into designer stores and fancy restaurants. Darcy liked the attention, but seemed to be just as glad to see her mother go. I was pretty sure they Skyped regularly, though, so the relationship remained stronger than one might think.
Darcy wore traditional canary colored breeches, a snowy white shirt and stock tie, black knee-length boots, and a black coat accented by a delicate gold stock pin and gold studs in her ears. She topped it with a black velvet hunt cap over her blonde bun.
I was in taupe breeches, ivory shirt, and chocolate boots, jacket and cap. Those colors better suited the rich bay tones of Bob’s coat, and while not as crisp in contrast, were on the more unusual side. Hunt seat attire was strictly regulated, even on the flat in the show ring, and the colors allowed were conservative and few.
I reminded Darcy to sit back at the walk and let the reins slide through her fingers. Petey had a long, strong, working walk that
could compete with the tall Thoroughbreds and Warmbloods that would be in the class. Those breeds had the free athletic build needed for this competition. Bob however, was much shorter and squatter, and would have to stand out on the preciseness of his gait transitions and his unfailing sense of duty.
Bob was a horse who was resigned to perfection. He rarely bobbled a nose or swished a tail inside an arena; he was that dedicated to doing his best. When flashy, brilliant horses (or more often their riders) made a mistake, Bob was there with plodding regularity and often picked up a ribbon by default.
Fortunately, one of the judges for this class was a Quarter Horse judge whom I had met several times, so the deck would not be stacked completely against the stock horses. Of the other two judges, one was an internationally known hunter/jumper guy and the other a Dressage gold medalist.
At the in-gate Darcy angled her way to the front of the line and entered first, and I squeezed in right behind her. Petey always looked especially perky when entering an empty arena and I hoped the judges would take note. As Bob was one of the shorter horses in the class, I pulled about fifteen off the rail. Being closer to the judges would make us look taller, and we would not be hidden by the giants who were passing us nearer to the rail. I was glad it was cool in the arena, because in the holding pen I had observed that Agnes’s shoe polish was starting to run off Bob’s bridle and onto his face.
Despite the negative press the show was generating, or maybe because of it, the stands were filled with spectators, which brightened Bob up some. He took pride in his abilities and even though he was a modest horse, he secretly liked to show off––as long as he didn’t think anyone would notice him doing it.
We walked, trotted, and cantered both ways, then lined up in the center of the ring. When all was said and done Darcy walked out of the gate with a pink fifth place ribbon, and I was right behind her with a sixth. I wondered if our placings would have been reversed if she had followed me into the arena, instead of me her.