At Top Speed (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  It all happened in a matter of seconds. Everyone cheered.

  But all Ella could think about was racing around those barrels, pinning her turns as tightly as physics would allow, and tearing up dirt as she and Figure Eight sprinted back to home base. The crowd roared in adulation, stamping the bleachers.

  Now that they were reunited with the group, Jordan sank quietly into the background. But talk spilled out of everyone else on the ride home.

  “Fletch,” said Ash, “is it hard to be a bronc rider?”

  “Sort of,” said Fletch. “At least, being a good bronc rider is hard. You have to have guts.”

  “I want to try it!”

  “When you get a little older, why not?”

  “Bronc riding looks like a good way to break your neck,” said Kim. “I’m going to teach my horse to do tricks, like that bowing horse we saw. Things that don’t involve getting thrown down and stomped by a bucking bronc.”

  “Me too,” said Drew. “I want my horse to bow like that. But I want to ride the broncs, too. I’d hang on real well. I’m great at hanging on. And I want to split up the cows! That looked like so much fun. Is it hard? I want to try before camp is over.”

  Ella couldn’t wait for lessons tomorrow, either. She was going to ask Madison about learning to barrel race. Like Jordan said, Figure Eight was built to run the cloverleaf pattern. Ella imagined the crowd again, roaring, whooping, cheering for her and her beautiful horse. It was up to Ella to fulfill both of their destinies.

  That night, Ella was asleep before she was all the way under the covers, and she dreamed of hooves kicking up clouds of dust.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  The next morning, Jordan beat Ella awake again, and was gone before anyone else got out of bed. Jordan left her bunk a mess of blankets and sheets—as it always was, no matter how many times Madison told them to make their beds.

  So Ella decided against going looking for Jordan, already knowing where she’d find her. If Jordan wanted to get up early and spend time with her horse, why not get special permission to ride solo? She’d easily get it. The trainers trusted her.

  Instead, Ella put on her shoes and got down to the pasture so she could watch the sun come up. Even though the mantra was her dad’s—early to bed, early to rise—Ella’s mom had been the one to actually live it. When Ella was younger and her mom still lived with them, Mom was the one who’d get up at the crack of dawn just to watch the sun rise. When Ella climbed out of bed early to watch cartoons, she’d find her mom already awake, a mug of coffee in her hand, gazing out the kitchen window at the orange horizon.

  Ella wondered what Mom would think of this ranch. She’d probably never find out, though, because Ella made a point of not calling her mom anymore. She hated when Mom popped into her thoughts like this, and she didn’t want to encourage it. It was just like Mom to barge in and dump a bunch of feelings on Ella, without even being there in person.

  Because thoughts like that—those wistful, pointless longings like Mom would think this place is amazing—were a distraction. They were the kind of thing Ella’s dad warned her to avoid.

  Have a couple school friends, he said, but don’t spend too much time with them and neglect your homework. Friends can be distractions. Distractions from the big picture, from getting what you want.

  Mom hadn’t been the kind of person who was the best at anything, the way Ella and her dad were. Mom was mostly just okay at a lot of things. Maybe that was why she left. Maybe being around someone like Dad all the time was too hard. She’d sure had a lot more friends than he did, though.

  A noise startled Ella. Someone else was hanging around the pasture, too. Ella scanned up and down the fence until she spotted Jordan, sitting on the top of the pasture fence, hidden from casual observation by the shadow of some stacked hay bales. She must have seen Ella long ago, Ella thought, and not said anything. How did Jordan blend in like that?

  Neither of them greeted the other. At first, the silence made Ella itch with discomfort. She wanted to ask Jordan a million questions about why she was so strange, and how she was so good at horseback riding. But Ella was unwilling to shatter the crystalline quiet that radiated from Jordan like a shield.

  After a few minutes, Ella forgot what she’d wanted to say anyway, and got lost in the way the shifting light broke over the trees. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when they heard Madison calling their names. But Jordan climbed down from the fence, still not speaking, and Ella clambered down after her. Then the two girls silently headed inside for breakfast.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  On the way out to the barn for lessons, Ella was bouncing on the balls of her feet, thinking all over again about the riders roaring past at the rodeo, hats flying off, tearing turns around the barrels. The kids took turns tacking up as usual, until it came time for Ella to get Eight out of her stall.

  “Actually,” said Madison, stopping her. She pointed to a closer stall door, “you’re riding Lacey today.”

  “What?” asked Ella, voice breaking.

  Madison opened the stall and started buckling a halter onto the little brown pony inside.

  “I’ve got you on a new horse,” Madison said. “Lacey may be small, but she’s willing and fun to ride. You’ll like her a lot, I think.”

  Ella felt like she’d been kicked. No—kicked and then punched. Then stabbed right through the chest.

  “What about Figure Eight?” Ella asked, her voice rising an octave as Madison put Lacey into cross-ties. “I’m supposed to ride Figure Eight.”

  “I figured with Eight giving you so much trouble last time, we’d get you up to speed on the basics with Lacey, since she’s a little more forgiving. Then, when you’ve gotten the hang of riding, we’ll put you back on Figure Eight.”

  The image in Ella’s mind—of tearing around a barrel at maximum velocity with Figure Eight—burst into flames.

  “No.” Ella glared at the little bay pony patiently waiting to be brushed. “No way. You can’t do this to me.”

  A crease appeared on Madison’s forehead. “Do what to you? Lacey is a fantastic pony. She’ll teach you a lot.”

  “I don’t want that horse!” cried Ella. “I want Figure Eight. I want my horse back.”

  “Well,” said Madison, turning her back to Ella, “that’s too bad. You’ve proven you can’t keep your temper in check with Figure Eight, so I had to pair you with a different horse. If you show that you can be patient—”

  “NO!” Ella roared, slamming one fist into the stall door. It rattled the metal bars up and down the barn, startling the horses.

  “Hey now,” said Madison, stepping toward Ella. “None of that in here.”

  “You can’t!” Ella wailed, angry tears slipping down her face. How could Madison do this to her? Figure Eight was hers! They had a destiny to fulfill. “No! It’s not fair!”

  With a sob of anger, Ella kicked a plastic barrel full of horse biscuits. It went spinning across the floor, surprising Lacey.

  “Ella Pierson.” Ma Etty’s stern voice sliced the air. “Get out of my barn. Now.”

  Chapter Eight

  The deep laugh-lines on Ma Etty’s face were, for the first time that Ella had seen, completely devoid of laughter. The old lady’s bright eyes had turned to ice as she regarded Ella.

  Ella’s temper flared, like a bonfire with new tinder. Who did she think she was, kicking Ella out of the barn? She was about to object to the humiliation, but Madison said, “I’ll put Lacey back.”

  With no horse to ride, there was no point in Ella still standing there, so she crossed her arms and stomped outside. Ma Etty followed her and slowly, calmly, closed the barn doors behind them.

  “How dare you?” demanded Ella. The old lady had actually kicked her out!

  Ma Etty’s lips were a thin line. “Luckily, Lacey is such a good pony she didn’t spook when you kicked over those biscuits—but what if your carelessness had frightened her, an
d she hurt herself? Or hurt Madison? What about all of my horses who are now distressed because some young lady, who should know better, threw a toddler’s temper tantrum in my barn?” The old lady stared Ella down. “I’m the one who should be saying ‘How dare you.’”

  Ella wanted to scream, to punch that retort right out of Ma Etty’s mouth. At the thought, she jammed her hands into her jean pockets and bit her lip as hard as she could.

  But Ma Etty didn’t look afraid, the way everyone else did when Ella started thinking about socking someone in the mug. Ella had deduced that it showed on her face when she was about to punch, because most people got fear in their eyes and backed away.

  Ma Etty only raised her eyebrows at Ella—almost, Ella thought, like a taunt.

  That poured cold water over her fire. She would never hit an old lady, not ever. Ella glared bitterly at the ground as the rage melted off into tears.

  “There now,” said Ma Etty, leading Ella over to the bench next to the barn, where observers could watch activity out in the arena. “Feel better?”

  Ella wiped at her face, wishing she was not crying in front of Ma Etty. The embarrassment made her angry all over again.

  “No,” said Ella crossly. “I don’t feel better. You took away my horse. I want to ride Figure Eight. I want to barrel race.”

  That made Ma Etty sit up a little straighter. “Barrel race?” Her mouth curved up on one side. “Oh, I see. Did you and Jordan see the barrel racing at the rodeo?”

  Ella nodded silently, sniffling.

  “Interesting.” Ma Etty hmmed, looking out over the other kids and their horses as they did warm-up laps. “Well, I see why you threw a little fit over Madison pairing you up with Lacey. Figure Eight is the perfect horse for running barrels.” She hmmed again, and Ella felt her temper erupt once more at Ma Etty’s calmness. It annoyed Ella how the old lady always seemed totally in control of herself, in a way Ella never was.

  “If she’s so perfect for it, then why can’t I ride her?” demanded Ella.

  “Good question,” said Ma Etty. “Why can’t you?”

  Ella glared at her for tossing the question back. But Ma Etty sat patiently, awaiting an answer.

  “Because you won’t let me,” Ella finally said.

  “Even if I did let you, you’d still have trouble riding her. You might even throw a tantrum again, like at your last lesson. What’s different now that you can suddenly ride a horse you couldn’t ride before?”

  “I want to barrel race now,” said Ella. “I have to.” Figure Eight would sense this immense shift in Ella’s priorities, she was sure. And Eight would respond to her determination. They had a destiny to run those barrels together.

  “I ask again,” said Ma Etty, “what’s different now? Just because you want to do something far off in the future doesn’t change the fact that, as of this second, at your current skill level, you cannot ride Figure Eight without losing your temper.”

  This roundabout discussion made Ella want to scream. “Far off in the future?” she said. “I could start learning to barrel race today, this second, if you let me ride Eight!”

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  There was no room in that cool tone for argument. Ella felt like a bug squashed under a very large shoe.

  “What do you mean, I can’t?” Ella croaked. Her fantasy of Eight’s hooves eating the dirt, of the cheering crowd in the stands, was dying.

  “From what you saw at the rodeo, did barrel racing look easy?”

  Ella was about to respond with an instant yes, obviously, when she thought about those steep, knee-to-the-ground turns. She remembered what Jordan had said about using knees and thighs together to wrap the horse’s body so tightly around the barrel. “Well, no . . .”

  “Let’s say Figure Eight already knows how to run a cloverleaf pattern,” Ma Etty said, though her tone carefully didn’t give away whether or not this was the case. “Do you think that right now, you could barrel race and not hurt yourself? That you’d have even a chance of telling Eight what to do, and of her listening to you, after your last lesson?”

  Ella didn’t speak, but she shut her eyes and rubbed her palms against them, attempting to stave off more tears.

  “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, but expert-level barrel racing takes years of hard work and training,” Ma Etty went on. “But most of all, it requires an incredible degree of trust between horse and rider. And at the skill level you are now, what reason does Figure Eight have to trust you?”

  “I can work hard,” said Ella, with all the force she had inside her small body. That was the one thing she knew she could do: put herself to a task and work at it until she’d won, until she’d figured it out, until she’d hammered and clawed her way through every obstacle in her path. “I can work hard enough to do anything I want.”

  As she heard herself saying it, Ella thought, That’s what Dad always says, too. That made her mad again.

  “With horses,” said Ma Etty, “just working harder isn’t enough.”

  Ella couldn’t imagine a problem that couldn’t be solved by working a few more hours, trying a new tack.

  “It takes patience,” Ma Etty went on. “Kindness. Compassion. Thoughtfulness.”

  Not Ella’s usual tools for success. But like anything, she figured, if she worked at it, Ella would bet money she could get good at them. She’d be the most patient, the most kind, the most compassionate—if that meant getting Figure Eight back.

  “And when I have those things?” Ella asked. “When I’m thoughtful and compassionate and whatever, can I ride Figure Eight again? Learn to barrel race?”

  Ma Etty raised both eyebrows.

  “Ride Lacey,” she said. “Stick with her for a while. Prove to me you’re not just a good rider—that’s required, too—but that you’re a patient rider. A kind and sensitive rider.”

  “How do I prove that?” Ella asked, annoyed.

  “I get regular progress reports from Fletch and Madison,” said Ma Etty. “When you’ve got that temper under control, we’ll talk again.” She stood up. “Then you should ask Jordan for help with the barrel racing part.”

  “Jordan?” Ella frowned.

  “She won first place at the California Junior Rodeo last year. She’s an expert barrel racer—plus, she has a fantastic knack for horses. There’s a lot you could learn from her, Ella.”

  This information stunned Ella so completely, she couldn’t say anything for almost a minute. Her thoughts raced as she looked out into the arena, where the other kids were working on their posture. Jordan, with her little brown ponytail waving behind her, checked her heels along with everyone else.

  How do you know all this, Jordan?

  Somebody told me. A smart woman I know.

  Jordan had lied to her.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Even after her talk with Ma Etty, Ella was still banned from the barn for the rest of the day, so she hung around outside kicking rocks and thinking.

  First place at the California Junior Rodeo. What a whopper to keep secret. Why? If Ella had won something like that, it would have been the first thing she said at introductions.

  When Madison handed out their chores, Ella found she’d been paired up with Jordan in the chicken coop. What luck. Now Ella had a chance to interrogate her.

  Why had Jordan said someone told her about the finer points of racing, when really, she was an expert in her own right?

  Ella wanted to expose Jordan, make a chip in her perfect image, and call her out on such a bald-faced lie.

  But Ella remembered she already had one strike against her, so as angry as she was, she decided not to speak to Jordan . . . yet. She might say something that would get herself in trouble again.

  In the chicken yard, Ma Etty gave the girls a rundown of their duties, and finished by saying, “Now, these chickens are my babies. Treat them like you would treat, well, someone’s babies.” She stooped, patted a chicken on the head, and said, “Sesa
me Seed here is my favorite, but don’t tell Dumpling.” Then she left them to it.

  They gathered the eggs in silence, startling a few chickens still sitting on them. After off-loading the basket in the kitchen, they returned to refill the chicken feeder and check the water level.

  Finally, as they started sweeping out the chicken coop, Ella couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  “What’s your deal?” she said, halting her broom.

  Jordan looked up. “What?”

  “You lied to me, Jordan.”

  Her eyebrows knitted together. “Did I? I don’t remember—”

  “About knowing how to barrel race.” Ella gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ma Etty told me that you won a barrel racing championship. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The color drained from Jordan’s high cheekbones.

  “O-oh,” she said. “That.”

  “‘Oh that’?” Ella mocked. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “It . . . it was just a fluke.” Jordan clutched her broom handle. “It wasn’t me at all. It was Mrs. Rose’s horse, Antonio.”

  Ella crossed her arms. “Who’s Mrs. Rose?”

  “A real nice lady who lives down the road from me,” said Jordan, looking anywhere but at Ella. “She lets me ride Antonio sometimes. He’s . . . he’s a really fantastic animal.” Jordan’s hands trembled as she started sweeping again, avoiding meeting Ella’s gaze by staring hard at the broom handle. “Antonio knows the barrels by heart. Just runs them on his own. I don’t even have to do anything, besides hold onto the reins and lean forward.”

  “You’re trying to tell me a horse won a championship for you?”

  Jordan nodded rapidly. She got the broom stuck in a cranny and pulled on it, but her movements were sloppy and distracted.

  “Like I said, I don’t know a lot about barrel racing. But Antonio is the whole package. He loves the barrels, you know? He’d run them even if I wasn’t on his back. Loves the thrill—eats it up. Especially once people start yelling and cheering, he’s a big ham.”

  Ella let this wash over her, because as unlikely as it sounded, she could imagine a smart horse like Figure Eight acting like that, too. But Ella couldn’t believe Jordan had nothing at all to do with winning a regional championship.