by Lisa Wingate
Imagene blushed and batted a hand, shooing away the compliment before it could land. “Well, it’s real easy to make.”
“Let’s go take a look at the horse,” Dane answered, and he immediately became the conversational centerpiece.
Surprisingly enough, he didn’t seem irritated by our late arrival, just ready to get down to business. I’d heard that Dane was an impatient man, not given to chitchat. Sitting here in Justin’s food tent, sopping up the last of his creamed corn with a half-eaten hush puppy, he seemed oddly relaxed. When he stood up, he bowed like an eighteenth-century courtier. “Ladies, that was delightful. I don’t think I have space for apple pie, but the kids might like some when they get off the hay wagon.”
Donetta smiled and began clearing the table. “Well, we’ll fix them up just as soon as Kemp brings the hayride in. And we’ll just cut ye-ew a piece to take home—a little souvenir from Daily, Texas. It tastes fine on airplanes, too. Oh, good gracious, look. We got ribs and sauce on yer papers here.” Licking her finger, she began trying to wipe splatters off pages of script.
“No need.” Dane gave the papers a dismissing glance. “I’m finished with those.”
I took that as a bad sign. If Dane liked the proposal, he probably wouldn’t leave it covered with barbecue sauce and used napkins. “Let’s go see Corley and the horse.” It occurred to me that perhaps this Dane family outing was mostly about entertaining the children. Dane was known for taking his kids on extravagant getaways.
“Sounds good.” Justin finally seemed to be coming out of his fog. Stepping forward, he reached across the table and shook Dane’s hand. “Great to see you again, Harrison.”
Harrison? Harrison? I thought as Dane returned the greeting.
They’re on a first-name basis?
“I hope Corley’s having a good time,” Justin went on, and I recognized the rising gleam in his eye. It was time for negotiation, and Justin loved negotiations. Having people beg and offer him obscene amounts of money fed his ego. I wondered if he realized we were on the begging end this time. “Sorry I couldn’t be at the ranch when you got here.”
“Not a problem. Corley has hit it off with your horse trainer.” Shading his eyes as we walked out of the tent with Frank and Willie, Dane looked at the hay wagon, where his kids were giggling and bouncing as the wheels bumped over driveway ruts. Next to Amber Anderson in the wagon, Dane’s wife threw her head back and laughed, her long dark hair streaming out behind her. Dane stood at the edge of the tent, momentarily enthralled. As we walked toward the barn, he took in the ongoing construction, the pads for new buildings, the flags that marked areas for riding arenas, basketball courts, and playgrounds. His face straightened, becoming unreadable.
Justin seized the opportunity to press on with business. “This is my writer, Nate Heath.” He introduced me as we crossed the driveway. “He put together the proposal packet, and he’ll be working on the screenplay. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Yeah, right, I silently choked. I think we sat next to each other at the Academy Awards last year.
Dane was polite. “Nate,” he said, and shook my hand, but that was it. As we neared the barnyard, his attention gravitated toward the little corral next to Lucky Strike’s round pen. In the small enclosure, Lauren and a hairy gray pony were giving riding lessons to Dane’s eldest. He was listening intently as she offered instructions.
“I think Corley’s in love with the horse, or the trainer, or both,” Dane commented.
Justin delivered a practiced laugh that didn’t really mean anything.
“Puggy has that effect on people,” Frank chimed in. “She always has.”
“She’s a good trainer,” Willie added, trying to roll the ball along toward the topic of his horse and the movie. “She’s one of the best trainers I ever did see. She and Lucky Strike got on with each other right away. ’Course, he’s an amazin’ horse, but she’s an amazin’ trainer, too.”
“It’s unusual to see Corley react so well to someone new,” Dane observed, seeming largely immune to the conversation and mostly interested in his own agenda. “Corley came out of an orphanage in Poland. He’s been diagnosed as mildly autistic. He loves movies, but real people aren’t always so easy for him.” He motioned to Justin. “He invited you to his birthday party because he’s seen all of your films.”
“Of course,” Justin answered, as if he couldn’t imagine that someone wouldn’t have perused the entirety of his work.
“I appreciate the fact that you accepted the invitation. It was very important to Corley. He sometimes has difficulty discerning fiction from reality.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” Justin’s reply was completely plastic. Fortunately, Dane was engrossed in watching Lauren, the pony, and Corley. Lucky Strike’s goat had wiggled through the fence to join them and was sniffing noses with Corley’s mount. In the next corral, Lucky Strike remained surprisingly calm about his friend’s absence.
We stopped near Lauren and the pony, and Dane leaned over the gate, listening in as Lauren patiently showed Corley how to turn to the right and left. Lauren’s back was turned, and she seemed completely oblivious to our presence.
“I’m interested in what you’re planning to do here, with the horses and the kids. I’ve been doing some reading on animal-assisted therapy,” Dane offered. “It’s impressive what some of these programs can accomplish, especially with kids.”
“Exactly.” The only thing Justin knew about animal-assisted therapy was what little was in the script. “The original screenplay for The Horseman was ahead of its time, but the market’s right for it now.” Clever how Justin quickly turned the discussion to the film project. Clever, but maybe a little hasty. Dane looked displeased.
“The original screenplay was horrendous. Everyone knows that. The writer’s sense of story and character was laughable—clearly a novice effort. It lacks inciting incident, shows no clear character development, the action’s flat. What works in a book doesn’t work on film. It’s a different medium. Film requires an understanding of the visual and a compression of time frame. On film, there’s only space for the things that matter most.”
“Exactly,” Justin said, as if he knew all about it.
A rope tightened in my stomach—something between one of the horseman’s lassoes and a hangman’s noose. I felt the boom over my head, waiting to fall. If Dane didn’t like the original, what were the chances he’d like my partially completed rewrite? I was way out of my league here.
I heard the still, small voice of Doug, telling me I should have known that all along.
Dane opened his mouth to say something, and I thought, Here it comes. He’s going to tell us the new treatment is lousy, too, and there’s no way he’s getting involved in this thing.
“Of course, what we e-mailed you is just a draft,” I stammered, trying to delay the inevitable. “There’s a great deal more to be done on the writing end, but we’ve had a limited amount of time to put a proposal together, and—”
Corley picked that moment to wave at his dad, and there wasn’t any point in finishing the sentence. Dane’s attention swung instantly. He was engrossed in watching Corley play with the pony. Lauren looked over her shoulder and smiled at us.
Justin used the conversational gap to move the negotiation from talk to action. “We’ve got a little bit of a demo worked out for you over there with the horse.” He pointed toward Lucky Strike’s corral, and I wondered if he’d even noticed that Lucky was sans goat at the moment. Justin had never succeeded at playing the horseman when the goat wasn’t there, standing at Justin’s feet, providing enticement for the horse.
Dane turned his attention to the round pen. “So that’s the famous Lucky Strike.”
“In the flesh,” Willie confirmed proudly.
“I’ve seen him race. He’s a beautiful animal.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Heard he’s got a bit of a reputation.”
“He did have. In the past.”
“Shame about his leg.”
“Yes, it is,” Willie lamented. “But he’s got a whole new career ahead’a him here in this movie. Won’t hurt the movie a bit that Lucky had all that press back when his leg was broke, either. Had folks from Dallas to Paris sending him flowers and well wishes. The pile at the gates of the vet hospital built up so big they eventual’ had to clear it out with a front-end loader. You can bet every one of his fans’ll come see the film the minute it hits the screen. They’ll all want to see ol’ Striker back on his feet again. He’s an eyeful. Just wait till you watch him in action.”
Willie nodded to Frank, and Frank opened the gate to the small corral, then went inside to take over the pony’s reins. “Here, let me walk the little chap around,” he told Lauren. “Y’all go on over to the round pen and talk movie talk.”
Lauren obliged after giving Corley a few more instructions. She won his rapt attention and a smile, which seemed to fascinate Corley’s father. “He never reacts to people that way,” Dane observed as Lauren joined us and we walked to the round pen.
Lauren glanced back at Corley, a tender look in her eyes. “Animals have an amazing ability to reach beyond the barriers. That’s the overriding message of The Horseman, I think—breaking down the fences, not being afraid to let someone in.” Her eyes caught mine, and I experienced a sensation I couldn’t translate into words. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before, as if I knew what she was feeling because I was feeling it myself.
The moment seemed longer than it was—like a five-second still shot, and then we were at the round pen, and Lauren went in. I stood on the rail next to Dane as Lucky Strike took notice of the fact that he wasn’t alone anymore. He whinnied and bolted toward the fence, making a strafing run past Lauren, which she calmly sidestepped. The horse circled once, twice, pawed the fence that separated him from the pony and the goat, then circled again.
Lauren began explaining the process of resistance-free training, of building a bond between human and animal. Her body movements subtly propelled the horse away, pushing him along the fence, keeping him moving, allowing him to run and nicker, check the boundaries of the enclosure and search for an escape that would lead him to the pony and the goat. A sheen of sweat formed on his coat as five minutes passed, then ten. Lauren continued to move him, pausing occasionally to explain his actions and reactions and to describe the body language she was looking for—the displays of submission that would show a willingness to come to the center.
Dane began to lose interest, and Justin drummed his palms impatiently on the railing. I found myself fearing that this would be the one time Lucky Strike wouldn’t cooperate. Maybe he’d become too attached to the goat. …
And then, finally, it happened—a lowering of the head, a softening of muscle and bone that rounded the animal’s back. A long, slow sigh and a glance inward.
Lauren took a step back, and Lucky Strike stopped running, then came to her, finally lowering his head into her hands.
The moment was a postcard in my mind. Lauren, the horse, the sunlight falling over her hair, casting it in deep shades of red, her hands catching the shadows as she stroked the horse’s muzzle, her face close to his. The animal relaxed, as if in that moment, there was perfect trust between them.
The bond broke as quickly as it had begun. Justin entered the corral, and the horse went berserk. Lauren stiffened, casting a worried look toward Willie and me.
“Now, you see, Lucky Strike, he’s got a lot in common with the racehorse in the movie.” Willie began explaining Lucky Strike’s history of abuse and injury, of being filled full of drugs and forced to continue to run when he must have been in tremendous pain.
Dane watched with skeptical interest as Lauren whispered something to Justin and exited the enclosure, leaving him alone.
Willie went on, trying to thread together the story of The Horseman and Lucky Strike’s past. “You see, any horse, even one raised in a stall like Lucky Strike, or the racehorse in the story, he’s still a herd animal, at the instinctual level. He don’t want to be out there on the fence alone. … ”
Slipping in beside me, Lauren let out a long breath and wrapped her fingers over the rail, holding on for dear life. Her lips moved almost imperceptibly, as if she were sending out signals, or praying for a miracle, or both.
I slid my hand over hers. Her eyes met mine, and I lost track of things until the horse bolted past, snorting and kicking. Dane took a step away from the rail, and Lauren closed her eyes, whispering, “Come on, come on … ”
“Now, sometimes it takes a little longer for him to come around,” Willie hedged. “Ol’ Lucky, he’s got a lot of bad past to overcome, but that’s okay, because it makes it all look nice’n real. Too many movies out there use some old washed-up kid horse to play a youngster like Lucky Strike. It don’t look real to anybody that knows horses. You want people to believe it, you gotta have a real runnin’ horse. A blueblood like Lucky, and … ”
The moments ticked by as Willie rattled on, trying to fill the time. In the corral, Justin looked confused, and eventually, frustrated. He yanked off his hat and slapped it against his knee, undoubtedly considering throwing it. Amber joined us at the fence, and Justin glanced at her for support. She flashed an encouraging smile, giving him the high sign. He grimaced, shaking his head.
“Calm down, calm down,” Lauren muttered under her breath as communication broke down and Lucky Strike began to weave back and forth along one section of fence. “Keep him going forward,” Lauren whispered. “Don’t let him disengage.”
Justin changed his position, forced the horse out of the repetitive pattern, pushed him along the rail.
“Good,” Lauren whispered. “Good. Keep him moving. … ” Justin looked at her, and she nodded almost imperceptibly, wheeling a finger, then turning her thumb upward and giving the signal for Justin to step up the pressure a bit.
Justin closed in slightly, focusing intently on the horse, pushing Lucky Strike harder, until the horse’s coat was slick with sweat, foamy and lathered around his neck and shoulders. His ribs heaved with effort, and Lauren’s hand tightened inside mine. I felt myself giving up, surrendering to hopelessness. It’s not going to happen this time, I thought. This is it. We’re dead in the water.
Across the corral, Amber closed her eyes, intertwined her fingers, and pressed them to her mouth. Her lips moved slowly, sending up silent words. Her face was serene, as if no matter how the evidence looked in the corral, she still believed in the horseman.
I reminded myself that we weren’t finished yet. Dane was still present. There was still hope. Lucky Strike circled again, snorted at the dust swirling around his feet, coughed and tossed his head, then circled again. Justin yanked off his hat and I felt my teeth clench. Don’t quit, I thought. Give it a little more. Give it everything.
Mopping his forehead with his sleeve, Justin squinted against the dust, pressed his arm over his eyes for a moment, seemed to consider whether to keep on or give up. An impossible silence enveloped the round pen. In the corral next door, Frank stopped walking the pony. At the house, the hammering and sawing halted. Overhead, the breeze stilled in the live oaks, and the cicadas fell into a hush, as if even they felt the weight of the moment, the breathlessness of anticipation. There was no sound, only the rhythmic collision of Lucky Strike’s hoofbeats, the drawing and releasing of breath, the groan of flesh and muscle, straining to continue, fighting to keep running rather than giving in.
Then suddenly, there was a subtle sign—a slight lowering of the horse’s head, the barest indication of surrender.
“Back off,” Lauren whispered. “Back off.” In the arena, Justin stepped back, not as if he’d heard, but as if he knew without being told, as if he’d felt the change in the horse’s motivations, as if he were the horseman. He stopped pushing, let the animal come to him, seeking a partnership, a gentle communion, a place of safety. Justin stretched out his hands, and Lucky Strike lowered his head, moving tentatively f
orward, one step, then two, then another, until only inches separated them. Justin cupped his fingers, and the horse laid his muzzle inside them in an instant of trust between man and animal.
Justin looked surprised, amazed, relieved. Content. In that instant, he was the horseman.
Across the ring, Amber smiled, her cheeks wet with tears. Wiping her eyes impatiently, she silently pressed her hands to her face as if she were trying to still her joy before it could bubble into the round pen and disturb the silence.
Lauren’s lips parted in a long sigh. I felt her body relax against mine. Her fingers loosened, and I realized they had been clutching mine so tightly I couldn’t feel my hand.
“That’s how it’s done,” Willie said. “A true horseman works with the animal, not against it. He takes the time to build a bond of trust instead of resorting to force. There’s a good lesson in that for people. When you get right down to it, animals and people ain’t that different. We’re all workin’ through the places we been, and we all need someone who’s gonna wait for us till we’re ready. This story’ll help folks figure that out sooner in life, rather than later.” He gave Justin a meaningful look as Justin stroked Lucky Strike’s nose. “That’s a good job, son. You’re a fine horseman.”
In the arena, Justin smiled to himself and looked into the horse’s eyes with a sense of wonder.
Backing away from the fence, Dane dusted off his hands and stroked his thumb and forefinger along his chin, frowning. He studied Corley and the pony, seeming unaware that everyone was watching him, hanging in thin air while awaiting his reaction. He backed away a few steps, and for an instant, I was afraid he was about to walk off without saying anything. What did we do then? Follow? Leave him alone? Let Imagene and Donetta try to ply him with pecan pie and southern-fried conversation?
Maybe he’d head back to LA without giving us any indication of his feelings. Dane was known as an independent type, not the sort to be pushed into anything. If we didn’t get an answer now, the wait would be agonizing. …