Dark Horses

by Susan Mihalic

  On the wide pea-graveled paths that separated the stallions’ paddocks, he continued his patter. “Each stud has his own enclosure. They’re close enough to see each other and feel like they’re in a herd, but they’d fight if they had a chance. They do, in the wild. The dominant stallion even chases off his male offspring when they’re two or three years old. It avoids inbreeding. Nature’s smart.”

  The gravel crunched under our feet.

  “What about the female offspring?” Will said.

  “He doesn’t breed with them. They’ll breed to one of the subservient stallions.”

  “Would horses like this know not to do it?”

  “No,” Daddy began, but Mateo approached us leading Noble, who was tossing his head and rattling the stud chain, and we went temporarily single-file to allow them to pass. “These animals haven’t been in a feral environment for generations. They don’t have the same relationships they form in a band. Given the chance, any one of them would mount his own daughter.”

  Mount his own daughter branded itself in my brain.

  We came to Byron’s paddock.

  “Most of the stallions tend to be hard to handle,” Daddy said. “All power and testosterone.”

  Byron plunged up and down the fence line, bucking and snorting.

  “This is Byron, the last of the horses I competed on. The others are dead now.”

  “You rode this thing?”

  I couldn’t see Will, on Daddy’s other side, but he sounded impressed.

  “All the way to half a dozen gold medals. I still ride him a couple of times a week. Keeps both of us in shape.”

  Byron shied at a figment of his imagination and bolted around the paddock.

  Will leaned forward so he could see me. “He looks like the one who threw you.”

  “She’s his daughter,” I said.

  “Like father, like daughter,” Will observed.

  “That’s a good point, Will,” Daddy said. “They’re both destined for greatness, Diva and Roan, if they want it enough.”

  That last part was intended for me.

  “It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I said.

  If Will were stung by my response, he hid it. “So, one day you’ll have your own case full of gold medals and more trophies than you can count?”

  “If she works hard,” Daddy said.

  “Well… doesn’t she?”

  That wasn’t exactly confrontational, but in the pause, I knew Daddy was wondering why a boy I professed to barely know had given any thought to how hard I worked.

  “I mean,” Will said, “she’s on this special schedule at school—”

  That one might be okay. Plenty of kids resented my schedule.

  “—and I watched some videos, and she wins a lot.”

  Whether he meant to or not, he sounded like he was defending me. Daddy would wonder about that, too.

  I kept my eyes on Byron, bucking on the far side of his paddock.

  “What videos?” Daddy asked.

  “I searched Montgomery eventing. Hundreds of videos came up. I only watched a few, but I saw you ride in the Olympics. Not this horse, though. It was red.”

  “Brandy,” Daddy said. “She broke her neck during the cross-country at Pan Am three years later. What did you think of the videos?”

  “They blew me away.”

  “Did you see any difference between Roan’s riding and mine?”

  Will hesitated. “I don’t know enough about riding to have noticed.”

  Daddy forgave his ignorance with a fair degree of tolerance. “If she’s going to carry on the legacy, she needs to work harder. Be better. Stronger. She can be good, or she can be the best. Up to her.” He took Byron’s halter from the hook on the fence. “Let’s bring him in.”

  He went into the paddock.

  The legacy? Will mouthed.

  I shrugged and watched Psycho Pony the Elder gallop up to Daddy and skid to a stop, clods of earth flying up. Daddy rubbed the thick, muscular neck, passed the headstrap of the halter behind Byron’s ears, and slipped the noseband over his muzzle. “Darlin’, get the gate.”

  He was showing off again, demonstrating that he was more than a match for all that equine power and testosterone. I swung open the gate, and Will and I stood well back while he led Byron out. The stallion danced around, pulling on the lead rope. Daddy jiggled the stud chain to distract him.

  I closed the gate, and we followed at a distance, out of kicking range, but not necessarily out of earshot. Just as well. If I talked to Will, I’d be forced to think about what I’d given up. I had to focus on what I was gaining. We were approaching the magical, peaceful hour that came after lessons, after grooming and cleaning, after feeding, which made it easier to see my future. The boy walking beside me made it harder. Breaking up with him had been the right thing to do. I ordered myself to feel better about it.

  Byron minced sideways for a few steps, flinging his head high, and I sensed more than saw the lag in Will’s gait.

  I broke my silence. “Don’t worry. Daddy’s got him.”

  “It’s like he speaks Horse.”

  “It’s his first language.”

  Daddy led Byron into his stall and removed the halter. The stallion pushed his head into his bucket of grain. Daddy joined us in the aisle and rolled the door closed.

  “It’s incredible,” Will said, “the control you have over a horse like that.”

  “It comes from knowing the animal.” Daddy hung the halter and lead rope on the hook on the stall door. “Want to see more?”

  “You bet.”

  Pain pulsed in my side like the world’s worst stitch.

  In the breeding shed, Daddy explained that there were no live covers because of the risk of injury to both the stallion and the mare. He pointed out the tease stall, where the presence of an in-heat mare was used to arouse the stallion.

  “The scent is enough to let him know he’s in a sexual situation,” Daddy said.

  Sexual situation hung in the cool, tranquil air.

  “Stallions have different preferences when it comes to collecting semen,” he continued. “This is the breeding mount. We apply some of the estrus mare’s urine to the mount, and between that and the tease stall, most of the stallions are more than ready to mount it. The AV handler usually stands about here.”

  “What’s an AV?” Will asked, even as I mentally begged him not to.

  “Artificial vagina.” Daddy took a few steps to a cupboard, opened the cabinet door, removed a long plastic cylinder, and tossed it underhanded to Will. “AV.”

  Will held it as if it were made of thorns.

  “There are various models, but they all work the same way. The handler stimulates the stallion’s penis and deflects it into the AV right before he—”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. “That’s enough.”

  “What is it, darlin’?” Daddy’s eyes glinted.

  “We get it.” I returned the AV to the cabinet. “Can we move on?”

  “I’ll leave it up to your guest.”

  Will’s face remained neutral. “What do you do after you collect the semen?”

  Daddy led us into the lab, and his patter became less about sex and more about equipment. Ultrasounds, microscopes, and sperm counters were all nice and scientific. It was like being in biology class, except for a mercifully brief description of how the mares were inseminated.

  The tour ended in the dressage arena, where Daddy explained what the mirrors and letters were for and Will asked an occasional question, but the pain in my side had increased so much that I could barely follow the conversation.

  When at last we started back to the house, I trailed behind them.

  Will looked over his shoulder. “You okay back there?”

  Don’t ask about me.

  “My side hurts.”

  They waited for me to catch up.

  Daddy put the back of his hand on my cheek. “You’re warm. Take some aspirin when we get to the house.” He s
troked my cheek and then gave it a pat.

  The walk to the house wasn’t long, but it was uphill, and I was breathless when we reached the front porch. I went straight upstairs, gulped down a couple of aspirin, and returned to the study, where Daddy was making a bourbon while Will looked through a copy of The Book on Eventing and drank something fizzy from a tall, icy glass.

  “Gertrude brought you a ginger ale.” Daddy indicated an identical glass on a cocktail napkin on his desk, next to a platter of homemade cheese straws and bite-sized appetizers made with radishes and sugar-snap peas.

  I sat down in the chair beside Will’s.

  He closed the book. “Such an interesting career you’ve had. What was your favorite part?”

  “I’ve enjoyed all of it. Riding, writing, even modeling.” Daddy pretended to fasten an imaginary cuff link. “This was my signature pose, for what it’s worth.”

  Will smiled.

  “What I love most is what I’m doing now. Training horses, you get to know them in ways even their riders don’t. And coaching, you get to know your students in ways they don’t know themselves. You see their potential. And their flaws.”

  A lot of riders called themselves Daddy’s students, but they’d only taken clinics with him. He’d coached two riders full-time, Jamie and me, and he wasn’t coaching Jamie anymore. The potential and flaws were mine.

  “I heard you say I speak Horse,” Daddy said. “She does, too. She was born with talent.” He reached for a cheese straw. “Problem is, most people who are born with it never accomplish anything because they think talent’s enough. Have a cheese straw. Gertrude’s an incredible cook.”

  Will took one and looked at me. “Do you think talent’s enough?”

  “I know it isn’t.”

  “The dedication and discipline it takes to get where she wants to go,” Daddy said, “are as rare as talent.”

  We sat there, three cheese-straw-munching fools. Well, Daddy was no fool. And Will wasn’t, either. I’d been the fool, believing I could have everything I wanted.

  At last, Gertrude called us to the table.

  “What do you think of the farm?” Daddy asked Will as we took our seats.

  “It’s amazing. I didn’t know about the training and breeding. I just thought you rode horses.”

  “I’ve been fortunate to do quite a bit of that, too. So has Roan.”

  “You can still outride me,” I said to Daddy.

  “For now,” Will said.

  “You make another good point, Will. Her whole career is ahead of her if she doesn’t muck it up.”

  Gertrude had prepared the kind of meal she used to make when Mama was here, a variety of colors, flavors, and textures to tempt the palate, overcompensating for the simple meals Daddy and I preferred.

  She set a dish of butter on the table. “Did you enjoy seeing the farm?”

  “Very much,” Will said. “There’s a lot more to it than I realized.”

  “Sugar, you feeling all right?”

  I forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

  She looked doubtful but didn’t press me. When she returned to the kitchen, Daddy said to Will, “You made quite an impression on Gertrude the other day.”

  Will spread his napkin in his lap. “All I did was drop off some books.”

  “And those pretty flowers,” Daddy said.

  “I told you, they were from the class,” I said before Will could comment. That was what I should have texted him, a warning that the flowers were from the class. I stared at him, trying to communicate telepathically.

  “Chelsea’s idea,” he said. “The yearbook staff did their daffodil fundraiser this week.”

  “Tell me about your family,” Daddy said. “Your parents own a construction company?”

  Will wasn’t the only one who’d done his research.

  “Mom’s the architect and Dad’s the builder. They specialize in green building. I help during summers and school holidays.”

  “Is this what you want to do for a living—go into the building trades?” He sounded incredibly class-conscious, not his usual style.

  “I might. I’m not sure.”

  “You have time,” Daddy replied. “No reason someone your age should commit to anything.”

  I almost spat out a mouthful of asparagus. He’d mapped out my future when I was a zygote.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “A sister. She’s six.” Will hesitated. “I had a brother. He died a few months ago.”

  That brought Daddy up short. “I’m sorry. It must be hard for your family.”

  “I’ve been trying to take his place in some ways, you know, spending time with my parents, doing stuff with Carrie. It’s too bad she won’t have the same big brother I had.”

  I looked across the table at him, unexpectedly moved. His eyes met mine. I looked away immediately, the exchange as brief as a heartbeat, but in the pause that followed, I knew Daddy had seen it.

  “I’m sure your parents appreciate what you’re doing.” If the note of sympathy in his voice rang true, it was because he knew how to hide his emotions better than Will and I did. My nerves began to gin up that feverish feeling again.

  “Who are you reading for the literary naturalism essay?” I asked.

  “Steinbeck. You?”

  “Stephen Crane.”

  “Mrs. Kenyon said anyone who writes on Crane won’t be graded higher than a B. Don’t reckon you’d like that with your GPA.”

  My grades were like my short schedule, perhaps something he shouldn’t have noticed but not uncommon knowledge. Still, this was an opportunity to prove to Daddy there was nothing between Will and me.

  “You might have told me when you brought my homework.” I hadn’t started researching much less writing the essay, but Will and Daddy didn’t know that.

  “She only told us yesterday.”

  “You could’ve called.” Too late I remembered that associating phone calls with Will was a bad idea around Daddy.

  “You said calling was against the rules,” Will said.

  One of those full-body flushes bloomed inside me.

  Will looked from me to Daddy and back at me. “After Thanksgiving you told me not to call you again, right?”

  I had told him that. Daddy had directed me to. I couldn’t get in trouble for doing something he’d told me to do.

  “I’m curious,” Daddy said. “Have you been doing it, anyway? Calling the house?”

  His tone was pleasant, his eyes lit by what could have been amusement, but his I-was-young-once conspiratorial demeanor was a trap.

  Will never called the house, never even called my cell. “No, sir.”

  “The thing is, Will, we keep getting these hang-ups. We don’t know where they’re coming from because whoever it is blocks Caller ID. The only thing that shows up is Anonymous. Are you Anonymous?”

  “Like I said, it’s not me. I’m pretty sure the only time I’ve called was Thanksgiving.”

  “Pretty sure,” Daddy said, “or sure? Be precise.”

  A second had never seemed so long.

  “I’m sure I’ve called precisely once,” Will said. “How’s that?”

  Daddy’s squint made the wrinkles radiating toward his temples look like smile lines, but they weren’t.

  Will’s smile wasn’t real, either.

  “Good,” Daddy said, “because if you were calling, I’d tell you Roan’s too young for boys.”

  “That’s between the two of you, but if I wanted to date a girl, I’d just ask her out.”

  Gertrude swept in to clear the plates. “How was everything?”

  “One of the most amazing meals I’ve ever had,” Will said. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sugar. I hope you saved room for dessert.”

  Daddy declined dessert in favor of another bourbon. Gertrude returned from the kitchen with coffee for him—good, he’d had a lot of bourbon—and small pyramids of gelato for Will and me.

  I ate
a spoonful of ice cream and surreptitiously watched Will take a bite.

  “Are you in the honor society, Will?” Daddy asked.

  “Afraid not.”

  “What are your grades like?”

  “Cs mostly.”

  “Well, that’s average.” He sounded as if he were reassuring Will that there was nothing wrong with being average. “Roan spends quite a bit of time on schoolwork. Hard work pays off.”

  Will didn’t offer any explanation for his grades. As much as I wanted to jump to his defense, I couldn’t.

  “I believe in being prepared,” Daddy said, “whether it’s homework or a show or an interview.” He regarded me with that trademark look, a combination of pride and indulgence, the look I always returned with a gaze that said, I’m Daddy’s girl, the luckiest girl in the world.

  I produced the gaze.

  Will studied his dessert.

  “Did Roan tell you about the interview she’s doing with SNN?”

  “Sports News Network?” Will said. “Cool.”

  “No big deal,” I said.

  “Sounds like a big deal to me.”

  Daddy gave me a stern look. “It is a big deal, Will.”

  The way he kept calling Will by name reminded me of Mrs. Adams repeating my name. Daddy was trying to soften him up, and Will didn’t know how to be cagey, not like I did.

  The combination of nerves and listening to Daddy spin the SNN interview into something bigger than it was and eating too much rich food made my stomach hurt. I put my spoon down, and after another bite, Will did, too.

  He appeared to be listening attentively, but as soon as Daddy paused in his monologue, he said, “I’m sorry, but my head is killing me. I need to get home.”

  “Put your tongue in the roof of your mouth,” Daddy said. “Best cure for an ice-cream headache.”

  “It isn’t the ice cream. It’s a migraine. I noticed when we got back to the house that you both had these shiny auras. That’s how they start.” He placed his napkin on the table. “I have to get home before it gets worse. I might still be able to take something and head it off.”

  Did he really feel a migraine coming on, or did he just want to leave?

  “Do you need someone to drive you?” Daddy asked.

  “I’m okay to drive.”