Dark Horses

by Susan Mihalic

  Shopping with Gertrude was more fun than shopping with Mama. The florist gave us tall galvanized tin buckets to transport the flowers in—rust-colored lilies, amber and gold roses, bronze chrysanthemums.

  “Want ice cream from the drive-through?” Gertrude asked when we’d wedged the buckets among the groceries.

  “Daddy’s waiting.”

  I was on a light training schedule until January, but that didn’t mean lessons came to a standstill. After I rode Vigo, it was time for chores. I barely had time to shower before supper, but I couldn’t come to the table smelling of horse—Mama’s rule, but Daddy and I went along with it.

  We needn’t have bothered. She wasn’t at the table.

  Gertrude served Daddy’s plate with salmon. “Should I make a tray for Mrs. Montgomery?”

  “She’s not feeling well,” Daddy said. “She’s resting.”

  Translation: She was drunk, hung over, on a hunger strike, had knocked herself out with pills, or some combination thereof.

  “How was school?” he asked.

  Lunch with Mr. Dashwood, French and biology tests—and Will Howard: I’m interested.

  “Good. I aced my tests. I have history tomorrow. I’ll be through by ten.”

  “Let’s ride out when you get home.”

  “Cool.” Riding out was one of our normal times.

  Also normal: washing dishes after supper, studying, Daddy stopping by my room later to say good night.

  But no matter how tightly I held on to normal, abnormal was always there.

  “Don’t stay up too late.” With the tips of his fingers, he tilted my face up to his.

  He was going to kiss me. I parted my lips slightly.

  He kissed my forehead. “Good night. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I said thinly.

  I had parted my lips.

  * * *

  AFTER MY HISTORY exam, I waited for Daddy on the bench in front of the school. He was late. Undoubtedly that meant he wasn’t picking me up. He might send Eddie or Gertrude, but I wasn’t that lucky. It would be Mama. I hadn’t seen her since she’d threatened to slit her throat, but since Daddy hadn’t said she was dead, I figured she hadn’t done herself in. If she ever did, it would be via overdose, but that wouldn’t have been a sufficiently brutal declaration: “I’m so goddamned sick of both of you, I could take a lot of pills.”

  Despite the forecast for rain, the morning was warm, the sky glazed yellow. I peeled off my sweater and wished Daddy would let me have a cell phone. I considered calling him from the office, but I didn’t want to encounter Mr. Dashwood. He was keeping a low profile, but I’d glimpsed him earlier in the hall.

  I was still waiting when the bell rang at eleven-thirty. Seconds later, students poured through the doors.

  A shadow blocked the sun. I looked up.

  “Figured you were long gone,” Will Howard said.

  “Guess my ride stood me up.”

  “You going home?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll take you.”

  I didn’t move.

  “I don’t bite,” he said.

  That’s too bad, I thought.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I trailed after him to the student parking lot. Sheridan Academy had several buses, but most of the students who were old enough to drive had their own cars.

  Will’s ride was a big white pickup with a pile of lumber in the bed and the Howard Construction logo on both doors. He opened the passenger door for me, which seemed uncharacteristically well mannered.

  The cab was clean but stifling with heat and the odor of cigarettes. He started the engine and let it idle while he flicked a switch on the dashboard. The air conditioner blew away the ashy odor.

  “My house is about five miles past the overlook,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Hard not to know about Rosemont if you live in Sheridan. Anyway, I run by there all the time.”

  “Is it on your way home?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh. I can call Daddy. You don’t have to—”

  “Said it’s not on my way. Didn’t say I mind.” He loosened his necktie, took off his blazer, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. I checked for track marks, but his forearms were normal. Nice muscle definition, too. I had a thing about forearms.

  He reversed out of his parking space and crept forward in the line of cars exiting the lot.

  “Doing anything special tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yeah, a big dinner, about twenty people.”

  “You have a big family.”

  “No, only Mama and Daddy and me.”

  “Who are all those other people?”

  “Horse people.”

  We pulled out of the parking lot, and then we were through the school gates and on the road.

  “What about you?” I said. “Is it only you and your parents?”

  “I have a little sister, and my brother and his wife and their kids are coming. So it’ll be a crowd. Not compared to your house, though.”

  What would a big, rowdy family holiday be like, with little kids running around a cozy dining room, and everybody talking at once?

  Will adjusted the rearview mirror. “What else do you have planned?”

  “Training and riding out up in the hills.”

  “You get to do much of that?”

  “Most of my riding time is spent in lessons.”

  “That blows. Or does it?”

  “No. I love it.”

  He wove his way through the holiday traffic on the square. “It’s pretty this time of year. The town.”

  I looked at him without turning my head. The town looks pretty? Who was this guy, and what had he done with Will Howard?

  Traffic thinned as we entered the North Street neighborhood. We passed Chelsea’s sprawling brick ranch house and the Stewarts’ imitation Tudor mini-mansion.

  North Street gave way to open space—pastures where horses and cows grazed and farmhouses dotted the hills. They reminded me of Gertrude and Eddie’s house. We started uphill into the twists and turns. Will nodded toward two low walls of stacked white stones flanking a narrow road to the right. “That’s our driveway.”

  I didn’t see a house, only trees, thick with fall color.

  “So,” he said. “Tomorrow you’ll eat too much turkey and pumpkin pie, and you’ll—what did you call that, riding on?”

  “Out.”

  “Out. What else?”

  “Nothing. What about you?”

  “I’m working on a dollhouse for my sister.”

  “You’re building your sister a dollhouse?”

  “Yeah. For Christmas. Why? You find that hard to believe?”

  “Well… yes.”

  He grinned. “I’m a man of many talents.”

  “Apparently.”

  He concentrated for a minute on the steep curves. “Would you like to go to a movie?”

  I hadn’t seen that coming.

  “You mean like a date?”

  “No.”

  I calculated the odds of survival if I flung myself out of the truck; we weren’t going very fast.

  “It’s not like a date. It is a date. I pick you up, take you to some rom-com, we eat pizza, I take you home.”

  My embarrassment receded. A date sounded like fun. Except for the rom-com, it sounded like something I wanted to do.

  Will was watching the road, but he glanced at me.

  “My parents won’t allow me to date until I’m eighteen.” I doubted Daddy would allow it then.

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’ll be sixteen next month,” I said helpfully.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “Twenty-ninth. When’s yours?”

  “October third. You’re telling me I have to wait more than two years before I can take you on a date? I mean, assuming you say yes.”


  Was he flirting?

  “Your parents might reconsider if I met them and they saw I’m an upstanding young citizen.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “So you weren’t kicked off the track team for failing a drug test?”

  “There was more to it.”

  “Like the test gave a false positive? For all three of you?” My doubt came through loud and clear.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Then I don’t think my parents are going to buy the upstanding citizen thing.”

  “Fair enough, I reckon.”

  He didn’t seem exactly offended, but the mood had changed. The conversation had become more real than rom-coms and pizza.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I said. “Not being on the team?”

  “I love running, not competition. I like being in the zone.”

  I knew what he meant by being in the zone, but running had never gotten me there.

  “I hate running,” I said, “but I love competition.”

  “You run? If your parents won’t let you go on a date, maybe we can go for a run.”

  “No.” My disappointment surprised me; for a second, I’d imagined us running together. “There’s no point in asking.”

  We took the curve before the overlook. I caught my breath sharply as I registered first a polished black Land Cruiser, then Daddy at the wheel—and his expression, when he recognized me in the pickup, morphed from surprised to murderous.

  “Stop. That was Daddy. Pull over,” I added urgently when Will seemed to think I was kidding. He slowed the truck and pulled into the overlook.

  Through the back window of the pickup, Daddy had disappeared around the curve, but he would turn around at the first opportunity—the road with the stacked stone walls. I hadn’t realized how serious my transgression was until I saw The Face. Permission was required for any deviation in schedule, even though he was the one who’d been late.

  “Why are you so freaked?” Will asked.

  “You don’t know Daddy.”

  “If I’ve gotten you in trouble, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I fumbled with my seat belt. “I should have known better.”

  “You should have known better than to catch a ride?”

  “I told you, I can’t date until I’m eighteen.”

  “This wasn’t a date.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He has expectations.”

  “You always do what he expects?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Daddy’s expression had smoothed into blandness in the time it took him to return to the overlook, get out of the SUV, and open my door. “Care to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Daddy, this is Will Howard—from lit class. Will, this is my father.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Will leaned across me and extended his right hand.

  Daddy shook it briefly. “Well, Will Howard from lit class, thank you for getting her this far. Roan, let’s go.”

  I slid out of the truck. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  Daddy shepherded me into the Land Cruiser. Ahead of us, Will turned left onto the road. He didn’t peel off; he was perfectly casual about it, as if Daddy’s picking me up here had been prearranged. He even lifted a hand in a wave I didn’t dare return.

  I stole a look at Daddy’s face and didn’t defend my decision to accept a lift home or point out that if I had a phone like everyone else, it wouldn’t have happened. He was on fire, and I hadn’t gotten this far by throwing gasoline on the flames. The heat analogy was subconscious; the car was freezing, the AC at full blast—and I’d left my sweater in Will’s truck. I hoped it wouldn’t smell like cigarettes when I got it back.

  - six -

  DADDY’S AGITATION ABATED on the drive home. Maybe he’d decided my catching a ride with a classmate wasn’t a big deal—although a thrill ran through me every time I remembered Will had asked me out. Like it would ever happen. Like I wanted to date a burnout.

  Daddy dropped me at the house. “I’ll be at the barn. Sadie’s colicking. Glenn’s been out twice already.”

  It must have been serious for him to call the vet. Daddy and Eddie could handle almost any medical situation, but colic could kill.

  “We’re trying to avoid surgery,” he said.

  “Do you need me at the barn?”

  “No, ride out without me, darlin’.”

  Riding out on my own was infinitely better than riding out with him. He drove down the hill and parked outside the foaling barn. I didn’t know all the mares, but if Sadie was in foal, her condition might be more complicated.

  Savory smells greeted me when I opened the front door, and I detoured into the kitchen, where Gertrude sat at the table crumbling cornbread into a mixing bowl and humming along to Cajun music streaming on her phone. Sometimes she’d grab my hand and send me spinning and we’d dance around the kitchen, but this afternoon she had work to do. Whole rounds of cornbread were stacked on a platter beside the bowl.

  Her brown eyes had gold flecks that always shone when she smiled. “Hey, sugar. Cornbread’s hot.”

  Nothing was finer than Gertrude’s cornbread, with its crispy crust and slightly sticky middle.

  I took a plate from the cabinet and a knife and fork from the drawer.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Great.” That was a little too enthusiastic. School never made me that happy. “How about yours?”

  “Getting things ready for tomorrow. Dressing tastes better if it sets overnight so the flavors can blend.”

  I cut a wedge of cornbread, slit it in half, and slathered the inside with butter.

  “You ready for company tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I’d rather eat with you and Eddie.” Butter oozed down the outside of my cornbread. Hence the need for the fork.

  “You’re welcome to join us,” she said.

  I’d have loved to slip away to Gertrude and Eddie’s, but I could hardly have two turkey dinners. I’d have to settle for visiting them on Friday for leftovers.

  “Save me a piece of black-bottom pie. Why are you making the dressing? Aren’t the caterers coming?”

  “Your daddy asked me to make it.”

  I savored the first bite of cornbread—sweet butter, sharp buttermilk. “This is amazing.”

  “I don’t know where you put it, sugar.”

  “She’s gotten curvier in the past year,” Mama said.

  She lives.

  I opened my eyes. She held a highball glass, the bourbon minimally diluted. Her black pants, cut low on the hip, and white silk blouse were more appropriate for a magazine spread than a horse farm, but Mama never set foot in the barn.

  “Did you know,” she said to Gertrude, “Roan wears a bra now?”

  “She’s growing up,” Gertrude said.

  “And she’s got a hot little body to prove it.”

  Gertrude kept crumbling cornbread.

  “Gertrude knows I wear a bra,” I said. “Who do you think bought me all those sports bras this summer?”

  “I assumed Daddy took you shopping.”

  It was an innocent-enough comment if you didn’t know what Mama and I knew.

  “Gertrude, can you turn that down?” Mama asked.

  “Sure.” Gertrude tapped her phone, and the bouncy eight-beat music went silent.

  “You didn’t have to turn it off.” Mama took a drink. “The centerpieces and the arrangement for the foyer look good. Are you leaving them on the porch all night?”

  “The flowers will keep fresher if they stay cool.”

  “But you won’t be here in the morning to put them out.”

  “I can put them in place after supper if you want, but the house is warm.”

  Mama nodded. “They’ll be fresher if they stay on the porch tonight, but tomorrow—”

  “I’ll put them out,” I said.

  “Sugar, it’s no troub
le.”

  “You’re off tomorrow. Daddy said you and Eddie are off until Sunday afternoon. It’s silly for you to come up here to put flowers on the table. I’ll do it.”

  Mama smiled, her lips pinched. “So thoughtful of you.”

  “I’m happy to do it.”

  We were facing off again, Mama reminding Gertrude of her place, and me reminding Mama of the same thing. Gertrude was family—more of a mother to me than she’d ever been. It was Gertrude who’d made me feel like I had a family, Gertrude who’d comforted me when Bailey died.

  Mama tilted her head, acknowledging my point, and turned and let the door swing shut behind her.

  “Mama.” I followed her through the dining room and living room. She started up the stairs. “Mama.”

  She didn’t turn around.

  I’d hurt her feelings. I always did. Running after her, trying to talk to her, would only result in her lashing out and me crying. I watched her head to the second floor. She had remarkably good footing for a drunk in heels on marble stairs.

  In the kitchen, Gertrude wouldn’t meet my eyes—embarrassed for Mama or me or maybe all of us, though she was no stranger to Mama’s pettiness.

  “You all right, sugar?”

  “Yeah. She’s just had too much to drink.”

  “Eat up while it’s hot,” Gertrude said, but the cornbread wasn’t appealing anymore. The melted butter on the plate had started to congeal.

  “I’ll take it with me.”

  In my bathroom, I flushed it down the toilet. Just once, it would be nice to enjoy a meal, or even a snack, without Mama ruining it.

  * * *

  I WALKED DOWN the wide brick aisle of the training barn to an earthy potpourri—the pungency of horse, the dried-grassiness of alfalfa and timothy, heavy molasses-laced feed, and vitamin-rich horse urine.

  I ignored Diva, greeted Vigo with lumps of sugar, and crossed the aisle to Jasper’s stall, taking the halter and lead rope from the hook on the door.

  “Hey, you.” I rolled open the stall door. “We’re riding out.”

  Jasper dipped his head to place it in the noseband of the halter, and I buckled the strap.

  I removed his stall blanket, led him to the crossties, clipped a rope to either side of his halter, and went to the tack room. On two walls, saddles perched on saddle trees, protected from dust by canvas covers. Rows of bridles lined the space above them. On the third wall, the heavy winter blankets hung ready; it hadn’t been cold enough to use them yet. On the fourth wall, shelves held grooming kits, each labeled with the name of a horse. I took Jasper’s kit and swiped a handful of sweet grain from the feed room.