At Top Speed (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  Ella nodded slowly. Was that what she was doing to Figure Eight? She remembered what Fletch and Mr. Bridle had said about “yelling.” Heat crept up Ella’s neck. Had she been yelling at Eight this whole time without realizing it?

  “You have to correct the moment you feel her start to come off the rail—like in that lesson we had with Mr. Bridle. Remember how when you felt Lacey start to speed up, you reminded her you were there and that you didn’t approve of the gait change? She knew that you were paying attention and she immediately slowed down.”

  Jordan had been watching what Ella was doing?

  “Yeah . . . I remember.”

  “Same thing. When you feel Eight start to come off the rail, just give her a gentle reminder that you’re watching. And then if she continues to ignore you, correct her more severely.”

  Digesting this, Ella took Eight back at a trot. Within half a lap, Eight turned her head slightly toward the middle of the arena and began drifting.

  “Correct now,” called Jordan. “Just a whisper.”

  Ella gave a gentle tug on the rein, matching the slight amount Eight was diverging from the path. She felt that connection again—that invisible line of tension between her hand and Figure Eight’s mouth—and immediately, Eight answered, drifting back to the rail.

  But there came no praise from Jordan, the way it would have come from Madison. Ella clenched the reins. She was going to have to do a lot better if she wanted applause.

  “Remember to look where you want to go,” said Jordan as they continued on around the arena, Eight still occasionally testing Ella, and Ella giving the same gentle corrective tug in response. “That will help her stay on the rail. Keep your eyes on the place you want to go, out toward the edge of the arena, and she’ll follow. Look in the middle of the arena, and that’s where she’ll drift.”

  Soon Ella asked for a canter. Ella’s eyes remained on the post just ahead of them, and Eight stuck to the outside of the arena like she had glue on her side.

  “Awesome,” Jordan called, giving a double thumbs-up. “But wrong lead.”

  “Lead?”

  “She started cantering with the wrong front leg. Slow her to a trot and try again, and when you ask for the canter, do it just before the turn—that will help her take the right lead.”

  Ella restarted the canter a few times before Jordan said, “Yeah, that’s it.” And Ella could feel what she meant: the rhythm of the canter felt right, more balanced, on the correct lead. She’d never thought that much about the way a horse’s legs moved.

  After they were done warming up, Jordan ran out into the arena and set up the barrels without Ella saying a word. Once they were all arranged in a triangle shape, she scampered back out again. Ella trotted Eight through the pattern once, then twice.

  “Looking good,” Jordan said.

  “That’s all?” said Ella. She’d done at least three things wrong, she thought.

  “Well . . .” Jordan climbed up onto the fence and sat on top of it. “You’re just reining. But to get those really tight turns, you’ll have to use your whole leg. Thigh, knee, heel.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  Jordan opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again. She hopped down from the fence. “Here, stop real quick.”

  Ella slowed Eight to a halt and Jordan walked over, patting Eight’s neck.

  “When you’re going around that first barrel—it’s a right turn—you want to bend her around the barrel with your legs,” Jordan said. “Why don’t you start with your outside leg? Just move your knee forward.” She took Ella’s knee in one hand and set it forward on the horse. “Apply a little pressure just before you’re ready to go around the barrel.”

  Jordan hopped out of the arena again as Ella took the barrel pattern a third time, still at a trot. Ella was so busy focusing on her knee that she didn’t look where she was going. They were sailing past the barrel when she realized it was time to turn, and ended up jerking Eight’s rein at the last moment. Figure Eight, surprised, flung her head toward the barrel and made an awkward loop.

  Ella felt like there were just too many moving parts to track. But Jordan didn’t say anything. Ella was the only one criticizing her own work.

  On the second turn, Ella prepared. She looked where she wanted to go, and pressed in with her knee at the same time.

  Eight bent perfectly around the barrel, and away from Ella’s leg.

  “Awesome,” said Jordan. That was it. One word. Ella finished the barrels and waited for Jordan to say something else.

  But she didn’t. So Ella tried it again.

  And again.

  By the third try, her hands and her knee worked in perfect sync, and they cornered each of the barrels so closely that Ella even made one of them tip.

  Jordan glanced at her watch. “I think we should go in,” she said, and climbed down from the arena fence. “A few cool-down laps?”

  She never gave orders, Ella realized—simply made requests, suggestions. It was nice. Ella always felt like she had a choice. Ella wondered if Jordan used that tactic with horses, too.

  “Sure,” said Ella. “And Jordan?”

  Jordan paused before leaving the arena.

  “Thank you.”

  She shrugged. “No problem,” Jordan said. “Just doing what Mr. Bridle told me to do.”

  As Jordan walked away, Ella felt a twinge of disappointment. She wished Jordan wanted to be there, helping her, instead of simply doing it because Mr. Bridle told her to, or because Ella had bribed her.

  But that was okay for now. Ella knew that the more she tried to force Jordan to be her friend, the more likely she’d push her away.

  So she simply cooled down Figure Eight and then took her inside to brush her down.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Ma Etty was standing by the barn door when Ella approached with Eight.

  “Looking really good out there,” she said, and Ella wondered how long she’d been watching. “You’re on your way to becoming the kind of horsewoman you’ll need to be.”

  “For what?”

  “For the amateur gymkhana show,” Ma Etty said, grinning. “That’s what.”

  “Gymkhana show . . . ?” asked Ella, not understanding. And then, it hit her. “There’s a show? Can I enter?” she asked, speaking so fast that the words almost didn’t come out right. “Can I ride Figure Eight?”

  “Sure,” Ma Etty said, smiling smugly, as if she had anticipated this reaction. “If you work real hard, practice, and have lots of patience.” She rubbed Figure Eight’s big neck.

  Ella couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “Yes!” she said. “Yes, I want to do it!”

  “Great,” Ma Etty said. “Willard will sign you up. It’s in three weeks. And the first prize is a belt buckle! But you have to be on your best behavior, or you won’t be going.”

  Ella nodded a dozen times. “Yes, yes! I will.”

  She put Eight away as quickly as she could and sprinted off to tell Jordan.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Cool!” Jordan exclaimed when Ella told her about the show, during the tiny break they had before dinner to get cleaned up and changed. “So you get to be in a show.” Jordan’s eyes closed for a moment, like she was imagining the spectacle in her mind’s eye. “And you get to show Figure Eight!”

  “I know, right?” Ella sighed. “She’s going to do so well out there.” Ella hoped both of them would look awesome out in the arena, too, roaring around those barrels.

  “It would be cool to go home with your own belt buckle,” Jordan said.

  “Heck yeah.”

  Ella was walking on clouds. Coasting on sunshine. She wanted to hug Jordan, but didn’t want to push her luck. So instead, as Ella took off her muddy riding boots and put on her sneakers, she said, “I’m going to have to learn how to go faster. Can’t win barrels at a trot.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jordan said. “You’re doing fine. I’m su
re you won’t have a problem getting to a gallop.”

  And sure enough, the next day Ella progressed from going at a fast trot around the barrels to taking them at a canter. She wanted to gallop so badly—to speed from barrel to barrel like those racers at the rodeo. But that was her instinct speaking. That was Dad, saying, Go for it! Get what you want!

  For this, Ella needed to think like Jordan. If she wanted to do this right, she had to progress slowly, carefully. The understanding that Ella and Eight were forging only existed at the slower speeds so far. Ella could completely control Eight at a walk, a trot, and a canter around the barrels.

  Galloping—that wild, speeding gait that she had only practiced along the rail—would require a different set of skills.

  It was clear, though, that Eight wanted to run the barrel pattern. She itched for it, jumping into faster gaits than Ella asked for as often as she could. Sometimes Ella let her sprint home from the last barrel, and Eight devoured it.

  So, on their third lesson with Jordan, Ella decided to let her run.

  “Any tips?” asked Ella, as she proposed her plan to Jordan.

  “Don’t fly off,” she said, and climbed up to her usual spot on the arena fence to watch. “Hold onto your horn if you need to.”

  As Ella and Eight took off from one end of the arena toward the first barrel, Jordan shouted, “Woo hoo!” Then: “Remember to look!”

  Ella’s gaze locked onto a spot on the other side of the barrel. At first, her body flew up in the saddle, unused to the speed. But she adjusted her weight and settled deep in her seat, right on the pockets of her jeans, and flew right back down again.

  As Eight approached the barrel, Ella pulled the reins to the side. With her legs she guided Eight around the barrel. Then they were clear of the first and it was on to the second, at full speed.

  Ella dropped forward in the saddle, giving Eight the reins, telling her she could finally go as fast as she wanted—as fast as she could.

  Around the second barrel they flew. Ella guided Eight’s big body around the turn, feeling the horse’s muscles bunch up underneath her as she compressed her haunches and wrapped herself around the barrel—tight as a python strangling its prey.

  Then, clear of the barrel, Eight extended again and exploded off the turn. They sprinted toward the last barrel.

  Exhilaration filled Ella to the brim. The dirt sailed past beneath Eight’s neck as the wind tossed Ella’s braid. She hadn’t known a horse could move this fast, hadn’t imagined it even in her fantasies.

  “Ella!” shouted Jordan. “Watch out!”

  Ella snapped out of it to find that, rather than aiming for the spot just to the right of the third barrel, she’d guided Eight straight into it by staring at it.

  Ella yanked the rein hard to one side. Eight veered, her head pulling against the sudden movement, but she didn’t have enough time.

  Eight’s shoulder collided with the barrel. Then so did Ella’s foot. Ella yelped in pain while Eight neighed in surprise, and they careened off to the side of the arena.

  “Stop her!” called Jordan. “Ella! Whoa! Whoa!”

  Jordan’s urgent, steady voice drew Ella out of the panic. She pulled back hard on the reins as the far end of the arena loomed big and close—too close.

  Eight slammed her hooves down into the dirt and came to an instant stop.

  They both stood, breathing hard, for a tiny eternity. Jordan climbed down from the fence and jogged over to them. She patted Eight’s sweaty neck, then Ella’s sweaty leg.

  “It’s all right,” she said, and Ella couldn’t tell if she was speaking to her or the horse. Maybe to both of them. The panic that had overwhelmed her senses drained off, leaving Ella shaking and tearful.

  Ella took a big gasp of air as the fear finally left her, leaving an aching chasm of disappointment.

  “What did I do?” Ella asked, staring down at Eight’s sweating neck. “What did I do wrong?”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jordan said. She offered a hand up to Ella and Ella took it, letting Jordan help her down from the saddle. Jordan put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

  Still holding onto Ella with one arm, Jordan checked the condition of Eight’s shoulder where she had collided with the barrel.

  “No harm done,” Jordan said, showing the unmarred, doe-brown hair to Ella. “See?” Eight’s velvety white nostrils flared with each deep breath, and her eyes were wide.

  “I terrified her,” said Ella, hiccuping with a sob that she held in. “I ruined her.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything. You were both caught up in the moment.” Jordan, one arm still wrapped around Ella’s shoulders, took Eight’s reins in her other hand and began walking the two of them around the arena to cool down. Silently they did one entire lap. Ella’s breaths began to even out, and so did Eight’s. The horse’s great neck began to droop—stretching out, lowering to the ground.

  “Look,” said Jordan. “Everything’s okay. Figure Eight’s already relaxed again. She’s not upset at you.”

  Ella glanced over. Eight looked so beautiful—her faded brown splotches, her white nose—and not injured at all. She probably had just been surprised by Ella’s poor horsemanship.

  “Jordan?” Ella asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Can . . . can you put Eight away for me?” Ella hated asking for the favor after causing this big mess, but she felt like an old statue slowly crumbling to bits. She couldn’t bear to be around horses anymore today. She wanted to go sit down in the grass and cry alone for a while, until all the fear and frustration melted off her like a crust of ice in the sun.

  “Of course,” said Jordan. “No problem.” Giving Ella one last squeeze, Jordan took Eight on another lap around the arena.

  Ella jogged to the pasture, where she found a cool, grassy knoll overlooking the creek. She sat right at the top and watched the sun dip behind the mountains.

  Why did Ella always screw up like this, right when things were starting to go right?

  The tears that had been building up in the arena all tumbled out of her. She didn’t even try to stop them.

  Ella hadn’t hurt Eight, and she hadn’t been hurt herself. But if Ella got distracted again for even a second, the next time could be worse. What if it happened at the gymkhana show, in front of everyone? Jordan might not always be there.

  If Eight got hurt, Ella would never, ever forgive herself.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Awhile later, someone padded up the hill behind Ella. Jordan sat down in the grass. For a long time, she didn’t speak, and for once, Ella was fine with it. She didn’t want to hear her own miserable voice anyway.

  “You know,” Jordan said after a while, “Eight gets excited whenever you come into the barn.”

  Ella glanced up, her face a crackly mask from crying. When she thought about it, Jordan was usually in the barn already when Ella showed up. Jordan observed things like that, things Ella didn’t see. She was always paying attention.

  “That horse loves to run,” Jordan went on. “Don’t think she ever got to run this much before you.”

  Sometimes the way Jordan talked about horses, it sounded like she was one. She seemed to understand them better than people.

  “Why do you love horses so much?” Ella asked.

  If the question surprised Jordan, she didn’t show it.

  She shrugged, her usual answer. Ella was going to leave it at that, but then Jordan said, “They’re innocent. Pure. Like Eight—even though she seems a bit bratty, she’s not. She just wants to run. Her desires are simple.” She sighed. “I wish people were that simple.”

  “Huh.” No one had ever spelled it out that way for Ella. People really were complicated. “How did you get into horseback riding?”

  “It’s the one thing that’s mine,” Jordan said. “And only mine.”

  That wasn’t even close to an answer that Ella had expected. “You usually have to share?”

&nb
sp; “I have five brothers and two sisters. I’m the third oldest.”

  Ella didn’t know anyone who came from a family with eight kids.

  “None of them ride?” she asked.

  “We couldn’t have a horse, even if my parents wanted one.”

  “Then how did you learn?”

  “It found me. I was selling eggs to Mrs. Rose and I said something about her horses—she had three big, pretty quarter horses. I told her they were beautiful. She said, ‘They are, aren’t they? But I don’t have time for them all.’ Her husband had died and she had to take over his workload around the property. She didn’t have enough time for the horses anymore and felt terrible about it.

  “So after a while of me coming over and telling her how much I liked them, Mrs. Rose asked if I could help exercise them. She said she’d teach me how to ride in exchange for working them out a few times a week.” It was the most Jordan had ever said at once. Ella wanted to keep her going.

  “An initial investment for a long-term payoff,” Ella said, repeating what her dad always said about why he worked so many long hours. This Mrs. Rose sounded like a clever lady. “That’s really lucky for you. Free lessons!”

  “Yep,” said Jordan. “She taught me as much as she could and then she sent me out into the field. I ride three times a week and exercise all three horses. Mrs. Rose gives me a small lesson when she sees I need to learn something. For a while I had time to eat dinner with her before going home to do homework. But now, with Dad’s gout, he can’t walk much. Me and Olly had to pick up the slack—babysitting, helping with cooking, putting the kids to bed. So I just go over to Mrs. Rose’s, ride them quick as I can, and run home.”

  The puzzle that was Jordan McAdam started to click together, forming a picture that Ella could finally make out. She was one girl out of eight kids, trying to help keep her family afloat.

  “Is Olly your brother?” asked Ella.

  “Older brother. My oldest sister’s gone off to college, so Olly and I help out with the younger kids now while Mom works and takes care of Dad, since Dad can’t work. Olly does even more around the house than I do so I can have my afternoons free for Mrs. Rose’s horses.” Jordan stared down at the open palms of her hands. “I try to do as much as I can to make up for it—make the kids breakfast, help them with their homework, wash Olly’s clothes. But the best thing is to just be quiet, because noise upsets Dad.”