Dark Horses

by Susan Mihalic

  Competition was an hour away, but as soon as he was ready, I put on my black dress helmet and white kid gloves. Daddy gave me a leg up—the saddle was more comfortable today than it had been yesterday—and led us to the same field we’d ridden in yesterday. It was almost deserted.

  “He’s always quiet in the barn,” Daddy said, “but you know he lights up under saddle.”

  As if to verify that, Jasper danced sideways with his hindquarters. I took him through some figure eights to get his attention and bend his body, and when his back was soft and round and the stiffness in his hindquarters was gone, I moved him into the trot.

  “Hands,” Daddy said as we passed him.

  I corrected my hand position. I tended to carry my left hand higher than my right.

  We went into a canter, and Jasper bucked, a major fault.

  “Let him get it out of his system,” Daddy called.

  Jasper relaxed into the canter, and after a while Daddy had me put him through some lateral work and lead changes.

  When he said, “Let’s take him over to the practice arena,” my nerve endings trilled. We would enter the dressage arena directly from the practice arena.

  Outside the ring, Mateo went over Jasper’s glossy dark bay coat one more time with a spotless white hand towel. Daddy straightened the tails of my jacket. While they tidied us up, I observed the other riders. Jamie and Luna looked fit. So did Bree Reardon and Bingo. Charlatan slung his head as he entered the arena; Michael’s face was taut.

  “Somebody’s nervous,” I said.

  Michael scowled. “Who asked you?”

  I shrugged. Psyching out one’s opponent was a time-honored technique.

  “Roan,” Daddy said. “They’re fixing to call your class in about ten minutes. Jasper’s listening to you. Maintain that connection, and you’ll ride a good test.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take a deep breath and let it out.… Another one.… One more.… Good. Stay relaxed. Stay focused. And smile.”

  Riders weren’t judged on demeanor, but a grim expression created a negative impression. Daddy even made me smile during lessons so I’d be in the habit.

  “Knock ’em dead, darlin’.” He slapped me lightly on the thigh.

  I kept Jasper moving around the warm-up arena in a slow trot. A general announcement came over the loudspeaker welcoming everyone to the invitational. Then the announcer said, “Now entering the arena, number one, Emerald Jazz Dancer, owned by Rosemont Farms and ridden by Roan Montgomery.”

  The bell signaled the beginning of the test.

  As we cantered into the competition arena, everything receded except the horse under me, the stretch of soft dirt ahead of us, and the sun gleaming on the white paint and shiny black letters.

  At X, dead center of the arena, we stopped in a solid foursquare halt so impeccable that I almost laughed. I saluted the judges and proceeded into a collected trot, tracking left at C. I rode H to K in a medium trot, resuming a collected trot at K.

  Over the next five minutes, we covered the entire arena, executing prescribed movements at particular letters, Jasper gathering tremendous power and releasing it with precision and ease. His strides were even and level, and his back and haunches moved with a relaxed swing. It seemed like we’d barely begun when we halted again at the invisible X.

  I held the reins in my left hand, dropped my right hand by my side, and nodded my final salute to the judges. The world rushed back amid applause and cheers and whistles. I patted Jasper’s sweat-damp shoulder. “Good job. Great job.”

  Daddy and Mateo met us by the in-gate. Outside the practice arena, we passed Michael, who was up next. If I’d liked him better, I’d have felt sorry for him.

  “Hard act to follow,” I said.

  He shot me a dirty look.

  I swung my right leg over Jasper’s neck and dropped to the ground. Mateo draped a cooling sheet over him.

  Daddy handed me a bottle of water. “Beautiful, darlin’.”

  “Pure class,” Mateo said.

  “Thank you,” I said to Mateo. It was impossible to offer sufficient thanks to my show team. They always made me look good. They were well compensated—Daddy was an exacting but generous employer—but I never wanted them to think I took them for granted.

  Mateo acknowledged my thanks with a nod and led Jasper away while Daddy and I waited for my score. I was high as a kite.

  “That was Emerald Jazz Dancer, ridden by Roan Montgomery, with a score of 54.8.”

  Subdued applause from the stands reflected disapproval of the judges’ scoring.

  Daddy was philosophical. “Luck of the draw. If you’d ridden later, you’d have scored better. You were damned near perfect.”

  When he said something as extravagant as “damned near perfect,” he meant it.

  At the barn, Mateo was hosing Jasper off in the wash rack. Jasper curled back his upper lip as Mateo sprayed him in the face.

  “Go back to the trailer and change.” Daddy held out the key.

  We watched another two hours of the competition, had sandwiches with Eddie and Mateo, and walked the course twice more. By dusk, the dressage results were in. I’d placed tenth, which worried me, but standings could change completely by this time tomorrow. Cross-country was where Jasper and I excelled.

  As we drove back to the hotel, I started thinking about a bath. I smelled like a barnyard—which I didn’t mind. The combination of horse and sweat and leather was my aromatherapy.

  The lobby was packed and noisy with horse-show people. Vic Embry from Sports News Network kissed my cheek. “I’ve been trying to catch up with you two all day. You rode a phenomenal test.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How about a drink?” Daddy said to Vic. He handed me a plastic key card. “Go on up, darlin’. I won’t be long.”

  I exchanged greetings with other riders and trainers as I squeezed onto an almost-full elevator. Jamie, wedged in the back but a head taller than everyone else, said, “Well done.”

  I pressed the button for the third floor. “You, too. Congratulations.” He was in first place.

  “I mean it. You were robbed on your score.”

  “Luck of the draw.”

  In my room, I took my hair down and rooted around in my duffel while the tub filled. I had packed a jar of lavender bath salts, made by Gertrude, who had different ideas about aromatherapy.

  “Lavender’s supposed to help you relax,” she’d said.

  “Do you think I need to relax?”

  “You put a lot of pressure on yourself.”

  I found the jar with its pretty hand-lettered label. Gertrude was tireless, keeping two houses, cooking for us as well as for herself and Eddie—and she still did stuff like this.

  Mindful of the fact that I still had a bladder infection, which felt worse now than it had at the show park, I poured a shallow handful of the lavender salt into the tub. It smelled sweet, but I didn’t have a lot of faith in its relaxation properties. Something from Mama’s medicine chest would work better, but I didn’t dare raid her pills. She kept a close inventory.

  I stepped into the tub and settled back against the cold white porcelain. Hot water closed over me. Bliss.

  I sank lower and let my arms float. Water filled my ears and muffled the noisy flow from the tap.

  A hot bath was better than a pill. At least, it felt better. Judging from Mama’s ability to sleep like the dead, a pill was more effective. Or lots of pills. I could eat handfuls of them, like she did.

  That, and not Mama’s accounting system, was the real danger. I returned to my original conclusion: A hot bath was better than a pill. I was less likely to kill myself this way, unless I dozed off and drowned.

  What kind of idiot fell asleep and drowned in the bathtub? I snorted and sat up, wiping water from my eyes. Then I jolted upright. Daddy leaned against the doorway, his arms folded as casually as if he were in line at the bank, but his eyes were gluttonous.

  I drew my legs to my
chest and hugged my knees. “We’re at a show.”

  He rarely bothered me at shows. I counted on that. But he didn’t budge.

  I leaned forward and shut off the water. “I’m in the bath.”

  “Vic and I ran into Frank and decided to have dinner,” he said. “Shall I bring you something?”

  “No.”

  His eyebrow went up.

  “Sir. No, sir.”

  He came in and sat on the side of the tub. I tried to make myself into something small, with a shell, as he unwrapped a miniature soap and dipped his hand into the water. I was rigid as he sluiced hot soapy water across my shoulders.

  “It’s all right. I’ve bathed you since you were little. You used to bathe me, too.”

  I remembered. “Daddy, please.”

  Soap-slick fingers trailed down my spine and up again.

  Gooseflesh rose all over me, even underwater. I stared at the dripping faucet.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  The water beaded into another droplet, swelling until its weight pulled it free. Drip.

  He pushed his fingers into my hair, made a fist, pulled my head back. “Look at me.”

  I did.

  He kissed me, his mouth gentle and persuasive. When I didn’t resist, he loosened his grip and disentangled his fingers. Then he tugged my earlobe and arranged a strand of hair over my shoulder.

  “Order something from room service. I’ll give you a wake-up call in the morning.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t stay up too late. Love you, darlin’.”

  “Love you, too, Daddy,” I whispered.

  - two -

  DRESSAGE AND STADIUM jumping took place in arenas, but cross-country was spread out over acres of fields, hills, valleys, and woods, and negotiating obstacles at speed was all that mattered.

  I’d studied the course map last night while I picked the turkey off a club sandwich in my room and again over an early breakfast with Daddy in the hotel restaurant, where he and the competition exchanged quick smiles and firm handshakes and best-of-lucks for the day while I concentrated on the map. I was riding first again. The order of go wouldn’t be reshuffled until the day’s results were in.

  As I had with the dressage test, I visualized my ride, associating the obstacles on the map with the obstacles on the course. I’d noted every landmark, turn, takeoff, and landing, and I’d written target times on the map; I knew exactly where I needed to be and when I needed to be there. Strategy was important, but it was theory. I was ready to get on my horse and ride.

  The show park was a postcard come to life: cloudless pastel sunrise, emerald grass, tidy white rail fences, immaculate flower beds with masses of chrysanthemums in autumn colors. It was a perfect day to kick ass.

  We went straight to the barn, where Jasper dozed, one hind foot cocked, ears at half-mast. As regal and imposing as he looked when we were working, he was downright goofy in the barn.

  “He was awake for breakfast,” Eddie said. “He’s just relaxed.”

  Daddy opened the door to the stall, and Jasper woke up and shook his head vigorously, as if shaking off his silly barn persona.

  “Okay, darlin’,” Daddy said. “Here we go.”

  While he and Mateo saddled Jasper, I went into the tack room and finished dressing. I was already in a black polo shirt, jodhpurs, and boots, and to this I added a protective vest, my oversized Clox sports watch, and my crash hat. Eddie strapped the required medical armband around my upper arm. I put my number on over the safety vest and pulled on well-worn black gloves.

  We warmed up in an almost empty arena, where Jasper took flight over practice fences as if he had wings. Bree Reardon was wearing a leopard-print shirt that matched Bingo’s headstall and saddle pad. Daddy said black and white made a cleaner, more classic line, but it would have been fun to match my horse’s tack wearing something besides black.

  “Good job,” Daddy said as we walked briskly toward the course. “Watch your balance and keep coming into eighteen. You hesitate in the least, he’ll hesitate, too.”

  Hesitation mattered to the degree of one-hundredth of a second, less time than it took to blink.

  Eddie led us in a big circle behind the starting box.

  “Press on where you can,” Daddy said. “Be aware of your time. Ride it the way we planned. Aim to finish in about seven-five, seven-ten.”

  The seconds ticked off on the big Swiss timer by the box. I adjusted the fit of my helmet and the Velcro fasteners on my body protector.

  “You listening?” Daddy said.

  “Seven-five, seven-ten.”

  His eyes narrowed. I returned his gaze mildly, and he decided I wasn’t talking back.

  “One,” called an official, and Eddie led us into the starting box.

  Jasper quivered with anticipation.

  “You’re awake now, aren’t you?” I murmured.

  The timekeeper began counting down from ten.

  “Nine… eight… seven…”

  At “zero”—eight o’clock precisely—we lunged forward in a gallop.

  The first three jumps were fly fences, wide but not much of a vertical challenge, and Jasper took them with ease.

  We approached the fourth fence, a brush pile, and he telegraphed a microsecond of doubt.

  “Jump!” I yelled, and he cleared the pile.

  On landing, I squeezed him with my legs, asking him to open up his stride, and we streaked across the field. I rode low and flat to decrease wind resistance, but coming to the stone wall, I sat up and used every natural aid I had: seat, legs, hands, and voice.

  “Jump!”

  We sailed over the wall.

  At the coffin jump, three fences set in a dip, Jasper rounded himself in and out of the combination. We raced uphill. At the top, we leaped onto and off the bank jump.

  The clock ticking in my head was second nature, but as we approached one of the novelty jumps, an obstacle constructed to resemble a giant horseshoe, I consulted my watch. We were going faster than we needed to, but we were in tenth place. With all the other riders yet to go and stadium jumping tomorrow, I needed to finish well within the allotted seven minutes, thirty seconds. Daddy had said so himself: “Seven-five, seven-ten.” At this pace we would beat that by at least fifteen seconds, but Jasper wasn’t showing any signs of fatigue. I decided not to check his speed.

  Twenty-eight jumps, and he soared over every one of them. I whooped as we blew past the timer.

  I slowed to a jog. Friction from the reins had lathered Jasper’s neck with frothy white sweat, but he was prancing as we met Daddy, accompanied by Eddie. I hopped down, winded.

  “You see your time?” Daddy nodded toward the timer at the edge of the field.

  My mouth dropped open. 6:37.02. I turned back to Daddy. The coldness in his eyes sucked the exhilaration out of me.

  There was such a thing as going too fast. Jasper was huffing but not exhausted or wind-broken.

  Eddie caught my eye and patted Jasper’s neck, right where the reins had worked the sweat into foam, patting it into invisibility.

  “He’s okay.” I sounded more certain than I felt. Riding too fast could earn me a yellow card. I’d received one last year for failing to have my chinstrap fastened during a warm-up.

  One of the course veterinarians approached for the mandatory vet check.

  My heart was beating as hard as Jasper’s as I led him around while the vet—and Daddy—observed him. The vet placed his stethoscope to Jasper’s side and felt his legs.

  “Good to go,” he said.

  I longed to go with Eddie as he started back to the barn with Jasper, but Daddy put a firm hand on my elbow. “Vic wants to talk to us.”

  He led me to a flower bed bordered by a white rail fence. The green hills of the cross-country course rose beyond it, a pretty backdrop for an interview.

  Vic stood in the foreground, illuminated by lights on tall stands and silvered umbrella reflectors. His producer, Laura, held an arm out to Daddy and me, indicat
ing that we should step nearer to the talent. Then she joined the camera operator, the red light on the camera came on, and she said, “When you’re ready, Vic.”

  “Ready?” he asked Daddy and me. “Three, two, one.” He looked straight into the camera. “I’m here with Roan Montgomery, who has just completed the cross-country in blistering time here at Middleton, and her father and coach, three-time Olympic gold medalist Monty Montgomery. Roan, that was a tremendous athletic effort.”

  I tried to project the elation I’d felt at the finish. “Thank you.”

  “You came in nearly a full minute faster than the optimum time for the course. Are you concerned that might have taken too much out of your horse?”

  Since I hadn’t earned a yellow card or harmed Jasper, that was the remaining problem. If I’d fatigued him, he could be sluggish or sore for tomorrow’s stadium jumping.

  I kept smiling. “Daddy puts a lot of emphasis on conditioning. Jasper’s in phenomenal shape. He’ll be ready tomorrow.”

  Vic stuck the microphone in Daddy’s face. “Monty?”

  “I won’t say she rode exactly to orders, but it’s easy to second-guess when you’re not the one on the horse. Considering his form, I think they have as fair a chance as anyone else tomorrow.”

  “You’ve consistently jumped clean cross-country rounds all season,” Vic said to me. “That qualifies you to ride in two-star events next year. How do you feel about that?”

  Vic always asked, “How do you feel about that?” I liked to imagine someone who’d lost saying, “Like shit.” Also, it was conceivable that someone who’d come in first could feel bad, as I did now.

  “Awesome. We’ve been working hard, and we were ready for this. But there are a lot of great horses here and a lot of riders who’ve worked hard all season.”

  “Don’t you have an advantage? No one else is training with Monty Montgomery.”

  Daddy gave my shoulders a fond squeeze, and I flashed a smile up at him, our trademark Daddy’s girl gesture.

  “I’m very lucky,” I said.

  * * *

  BETWEEN TIME PENALTIES and falls, cross-country proved a nightmare for the other riders. Luna went down at the water jump. She was uninjured, but Jamie was taken away in an ambulance, drenched, dazed, and holding his left arm against his chest.