After our asana practice, it was Jett’s turn. Jason taught me how to stretch Jett’s front and back legs, how to massage his back; he even showed me some acupressure points. Now it only took me a moment to get Jett to groan when I got the right spot. Jett’s stifle only had a minor injury, and between the time off while I had lain around in bed, and Uncle Ian’s ultrasound machine, he seemed as if he’d never taken an unsound step.
In the mornings we worked on flat work, nothing too difficult, always stopping just before Jett became tired. In fact, Jason wanted us to stop just when Jett wanted more. In the afternoons, we either practiced gymnastics or hill work—riding up and down the hills in the back. “This will help his endurance over the long course in that International Ring, and it’s the best way to build muscle in his shoulders and hind quarters,” Jason said.
We jumped him at the Gold Cup level a maximum of two times per week. One morning I walked outside on Jett to find Jason in his leather chaps atop Pea number one’s twenty-eight-year-old mare. I laughed.
“Is she even rideable?” I asked, eyeing her swayed back.
“Of course. She runs around in pasture every day, doesn’t she? She’ll be just fine. Won’t you, old mare?” Jason leaned down and patted her neck. She was a seventeen-hand draft horse, and seemed to perk up with Jason on her back. “She’s got plenty of life left in her. Maybe no dressage Grand Prix’s in her near future, but some trail rides will spark her back up. You watch. She needs a bit more excitement in her life than being groomed every Tuesday.”
When I opened my tack trunk the day we packed the trailer for the Gold Cup at Spruce Meadows, a large package lay on top of my saddle pads. I scanned the barn for Derek or Jason, to see if one of them had left the gift, but the barn was empty. As soon as I saw the writing on the card, I knew who it was from. The perfectly slanted letters, the capital B, oval and round, the long and curved y, each n precise. I slipped my finger under the seal, tearing the envelope open.
Darling,
I believe in you. I always have. I’m sorry I haven’t supported your riding career. I was wrong, and I’m sorry to have pushed you away from it. This is your passion, and you can’t let anyone, especially me, stand in the way.
I know you and Jett are meant to jump together. Never forget it. Have faith in yourself. Have faith in him. Have faith in me.
I’m sending you off with a small token and some of my favorite quotes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
And even as she fled, she charmed him. The wind blew her garments and her hair streamed loose. So flew the god and the nymph—he on the wings of love and she on those of fear.
Fear has been the catalyst of much that is wrong in my life, and not surprisingly in my writing. I realize that now, and I am ashamed that I’ve been in hiding. That I haven’t supported you. I never wanted it to be so.
Never fear, my darling. You were meant for this.
Love,
Mom
P.S. I’m truly sorry I don’t get to hug you goodbye, but you know . . . work.
I clutched the letter to my heart, my eyes welling with tears. I pulled the ribbon off, tearing the wrapping paper. Inside the box lay a brand-new oiled leather bridle with an engraved brass plate, the script similar to my mom’s handwriting: Victory by Heart.
Over a day and a half, Jason, Derek, and I made our way back to Spruce Meadows, this time to compete in the Gold Cup. We took turns driving; Jason was resting in the small tack room of the trailer, which housed the sleeping bunk.
The doctors had told Jason and Ashley that Eve was a fighter and that she’d turned a corner. In the weeks since I had visited, Eve’s white blood cell count was up, her mouth ulcers had began to clear, and she was more awake and alert than she had been in months. Ashley’s husband, Tyler, arrived the previous week on a month’s leave from Afghanistan, and the family of three was back together—if only temporarily. Ashley seemed to gain strength and encouraged Jason to go to Spruce Meadows.
It was September second, with Calgary weather forecasted to reach into the seventies. Thank God. There’d been a year when Dad had competed during Labor Day weekend in the snow. Rain was bad enough on that grass field, but snow?
“Not much longer,” I said to Derek as I glanced down at the GPS. “Maybe two and a half hours.”
“Hope Jason’s getting a good nap,” Derek said, adjusting the side mirror of the truck with the power buttons.
I took a sip of the now-lukewarm coffee.
“He’s probably meditating,” Derek said.
I gave Derek a stern look. “Hey, come on. You know all of that has been good for me.” I tossed a chocolate-glazed Timbit in my mouth.
“Don’t hog ’em all!” Derek grabbed for the box.
“What? You want one?” I laughed, dangling the box of donut holes toward him, pulling one out, popping it in my mouth. I closed my eyes, exaggerating my delight, though it did melt in my mouth in pure sugary bliss.
“You better give ’em up, Brynn, if you know what’s good for you.” He gave me his best Clint Eastwood impression, his eyebrows coming together in a V, his eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell Jason you’re eating donut holes . . .”
“You wouldn’t dare!” I punched his shoulder. “Here. Before you go off the road.” I passed him the box. We’d stopped at the donut shop an hour back, and luckily Jason hadn’t seen me indulge my craving, but something about those things made me hunger for them every time we drove through Alberta.
“What about you? You barely slept.” A furrow lined his forehead.
“I’m fine. Wish you guys would stop worrying. I couldn’t sleep if I tried.”
“I don’t mind if you doze off for a bit.”
I glanced at the monitor to check on Jett. He fidgeted, his head bopping up and down, leaning his body to the right, pulling on his tie. I held my breath, digging my fingernails into my palm. Then Jett relaxed, and I rested my head back against the seat, listening to Derek chatter on, wishing I knew what the future held not just for me, but for all of us.
As soon as we parked I was out the door and inside the trailer, needing to check on Jett, to talk to him, and to make sure he was all right. As I walked up the ramp, Jett turned his head to look at me, his eyes mellow. He stomped his foot, as if telling me he was done with the drive. I laughed. “Me too, buddy. Me too.” I leaned my head against his face, his eyelashes brushing against my cheek. “Let’s check out the grounds, and ride by the International Ring, huh?” Jett whirred, and I snuggled against his velvety neck. “You always knew, didn’t you?”
After giving Jett a schooling ride in one of the warm-up arenas, I decided to ride him around the Spruce Meadows show grounds. Only volunteers and show staff hurried about in preparation of the show, Jett’s shoes echoing in the silence of the night.
“We’re supposed to have a record-setting number of visitors,” one of the show staff said. “Over eighty thousand expected on Saturday alone.”
My head reeled at the thought of all those people watching me ride, but I was ready. As I passed a lamppost with a Spruce Meadows Gold Cup flag fluttering in the wind, I reached up and let my fingers brush against it. I would jump, and I would win. Back at the barn, I handed Jett’s reins to Derek and told him I was headed to the tournament office, then turned back and gave him a big hug.
“This is it. It’s finally happening,” I said.
“Are you surprised? Cause I’m not. I always knew this day would come.” Derek squeezed me a bit tighter to him, and I had to pull away so as not to get too emotional.
On my way to the show office I ordered a cup of coffee at Time Faults, the only restaurant still open. “Actually make that an herbal tea with lemon, please,” I said. The moon hung above the regal facade of British House, full and round as I walked across the grounds, the path lit by cast-iron lamps. The temperature had plummeted, and I cursed that I’d forgotten my sweatshirt. I hugged my show binder to my chest, sipping my tea. Near the tournament office, I heard quick steps behind
me. I glanced back and recognized the figure, tall and lean, dark hair spilling around her shoulders. I swore under my breath, then kept walking, focusing on the moonlit path in front. I wouldn’t let her get to me this time.
After I signed in at the show office, back at the barn, only a few incandescent bulbs shone above the horse stalls. My boots barely made a sound on the asphalt of the aisleway. I inhaled the spicy scent of cedar shavings, hay, horses, and ammonia. I paused, smiling. I was finally here. As I reached Jett’s stall I noticed his door was ajar. My heart stopped. I ran the last few steps, already knowing he wasn’t there.
“Jett?” I peered into the empty stall. His hay tossed, his grain bucket on its side.
“Brynn?” Derek called from down the aisle.
I ran toward him. Derek, Jason, and Uncle Ian surrounded Jett. Uncle Ian’s damned black bag stood in the middle of the aisle.
“What’s going on?” My voice rose in panic, matching the sudden rise in my blood pressure.
“Well, I came to check on him, and I didn’t like the way he was standing in his stall, not putting any weight on his hind leg . . .” Derek avoided my eyes.
“But I just rode him! He was fine!”
“He probably is fine. Right, Dr. Finlay?” Derek’s eyes only briefly made contact with mine. I glanced at Jason, his vein throbbed in his temple, his broad shoulders slumped.
“Let’s not get in a panic here. Let’s figure out what the problem might be. Aye?” Uncle Ian said. He began to unclip the cross ties from Jett’s halter. “Derek. Can you jog him for me outside?”
“Yessir.”
As we stood outside the barns waiting for Derek to jog Jett, I wasn’t so sure I would be winning anything. I imagined Jason’s arms holding me tight, but he kept his distance. So I stood alone, the wind off the Rockies blowing right through me.
Derek jogged Jett head on toward us. Uncle Ian and I squatted, heels and toes firmly planted on the concrete walkway, scrutinizing Jett’s pace, his evenness as he trotted. The floodlights around us made it bright enough to see by. Derek ran, leading Jett, a myriad of shadows stretching and merging on the ground on either side of them.
“He looks off,” Uncle Ian said, mumbling under his breath.
“Again,” I said just as Uncle Ian said, “Enough.”
Uncle Ian peered over the top of his frameless glasses at me. He blew out air from his cheeks. “There’s no point in jogging him one more time.” He rested both hands on my shoulders.
“I just want to make sure,” I said.
“There’s no point,” he repeated. “Plus we don’t want anyone seeing us out here, guessing something’s wrong.”
He was right, of course. Every horse would be checked for lameness before the show—the FEI division horses would be jogged Thursday morning. We had about sixty hours to get Jett sound before their jog. It was getting late, past dinnertime, and even though all the horses had been fed, grooms would be returning for night check, with some settling in to the tack room or empty stalls.
“Is it from the stifle injury?”
“Not sure yet.”
“He hasn’t shown any signs of lameness.” All the weeks we’d spent preparing, riding, and he’d been completely fine.
“Brynn, Lassie.” He pinched his nose with two fingers, then looked up at me. “It’s still early, and I haven’t had a chance to run all of the diagnostics.” And I couldn’t be sure but I thought I saw his eyes fill, and it hit me: this was almost as stressful on him as it was for me.
“I have to ride Saturday,” I pleaded, as if he could change the unknown outcome of Jett’s lameness.
“I know, Lassie. I know.” He ran his fingers through his white hair, then picked up his black bag.
As I walked back to the barn I thought I saw someone fall into the shadows.
Jason and I ate at Time Faults. The quaint pub stood lit up, the front deck empty. Picnic tables with closed umbrellas and an outdoor bar normally welcomed customers, but it was Monday night before a large show, and the crowd was thin. We sat inside. A handful of people huddled at the wooden bar and long rectangular tables. A baseball game rattled on above them. The cheerful decor included historical photos of riders, a moose head, and old Alberta license plates. I stared out the back window at the chain-link fence surrounding the barns, which were off-limits to the public.
I picked at the spicy chicken wings, but even with all the hot sauce, they were flavorless. I took a sip of the fountain water from a paper cup. It too had a funny taste. I wiped my mouth with my napkin, glancing up at Jason. He hadn’t said a thing, barely eating his veggie burger. The silence between us stretched on, a Barenaked Ladies song drifting from speakers high up on the wall.
“I’m going to stay with him tonight,” I said, staring at the handful of grooms and what looked to be horse owners or investors also eating a late dinner.
“It won’t make a difference, Brynn. It’s not like he’s colicking.” Jason’s words came slow, as if worried he’d offend me. Of course he was right. A colicking horse had to be watched twenty-four-seven—but what could I do for Jett?
I stared down at the water cup in front of me, tearing away at the paper rim, unrolling the edge with my fingers. My cuticles had started healing, pink skin masking the terror I’d waged against myself during those weeks where I barely left my bedroom.
“I can’t stand around and do nothing.” I wasn’t sure if I expected Jason to understand, but I had to do this. I needed to stay with Jett, to check on him in the middle of the night, to feel for any heat in his tendons and hoof.
“You need to get back to the hotel, have a good night’s sleep. We’ve just finished driving over thirty hours—”
“You won’t change my mind.” I stood, tossed my plate into the trash, and marched toward the security gates of the barns.
Jason sat in a lawn chair to my left, his long legs stretched in front, crossed at the ankle, his hat pulled low over his forehead. By midnight all the noises of the evening shift had died down. The grooms had performed their night check over two hours ago. Jason somehow managed to look comfortable, as if he wasn’t annoyed at having to spend the night in a barn. I’d argued, of course, but he wouldn’t hear of leaving me alone. He’d rustled up two nylon chairs from some grooms, found a couple of clean horse blankets in the back of our trailer, and wrapped one carefully around my shoulders.
“Have you ever talked about it?” Jason’s voice was low now.
“Talked about what?” I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, the temperature having dropped to the midforties.
“Your father’s death. The day he died.”
I sucked in my breath. No one had ever bothered to ask me before. “No.”
“Did you seek counseling?”
“No,” I said again, curtly. Seeing him flinch, I softened my voice. “I didn’t need to.” I pulled my hand up to my mouth to bite my cuticles.
Jason leaned forward, placing his warm hand over mine, gently stopping me. His own fingernails were neat and round, the whites perfect half moons along the finger’s edge, trimmed, and even though he had strong hands, they were soft and supple.
“Maybe it would have been a good idea.” He propped his hands in a prayer gesture under his chin, watching me carefully.
“Maybe.” I stared out the barn exit doors at the bright lights still on outside the barn. A security guard walked back and forth, maybe keeping himself awake by moving.
“You know, Brynn, sometimes we try to be tougher than we really are. I know how brave you are, but it’s okay to let go sometimes.”
I pulled away from him. He was too close to me. His body was electric, his masculine scent spiced and warm.
“It’s been over a year. Maybe it would have helped if you had.”
“Maybe. But I didn’t have time to figure that out, remember? I had a business to run, school to attend, my mother to take care of. Who cared what I was going through?”
His hand returned to m
ine, squeezing it. He leaned in closer. “Would you like to talk about it now?”
I wouldn’t look at him. “No.” The hollow silence of the barn surrounded us. The small bulbs above the stalls were off now, with only a handful of small emergency lights still on. “What am I supposed to tell you?” I examined the stall doors across the aisle from me, the deep scratches, the chipped paint. “How I felt so scared that I thought my heart would stop beating? How it took everything in my body not to turn and run with Cervantes and Seraphim? How at the same time I was riveted in place, like my feet were encased in cement and how I had to tell them to move, one in front of the other, to run to him?”
“That helps.”
I stared out at the black night. The security guard hadn’t walked by in a while. “I didn’t know what to do, Jason. I just knelt there, cradling his head, brushing the hair off his face, trying CPR, and I was so desperate for the ambulance to come, but it seemed to take forever, and when I finally heard the sirens, I kept pumping on his chest, and breathing air into him, watching his lungs expand with my breath, praying someone would get there in time, that maybe if they shocked his heart it would start up again. When they finally got there, I just remember this young guy, he seemed like he was barely out of high school, his eyes wide, just staring, you know? I thought, what is wrong with him? Why is he just standing there? Why isn’t he grabbing the equipment he needs? Everyone was so slow, and I wanted them to hurry the hell up, because I knew we were out of time. And I watched them surround Dad, calling out orders as they hooked up the defibrillator, and I stood, hugging Jett. And it was Jett that gave me the courage to make it through that night—”
Jason pulled me closer. “It’s going to be all right. You did the best you could, Brynn. You did good.”
“What does it matter if I didn’t save him? I should have checked the latch. I should have stopped him from going into the trailer. It was all wrong. The whole day seemed wrong. I had this bad feeling . . . it all started with that damned earthquake.”
Jason knelt in front of me. “You know, in Sanskrit there is no word for guilt. There’s just no such thing. You have to move past whatever hurt you, and make peace with having hurt those around you.” He stroked my hair. “And I should know.” Jason’s hand moved up and down my back. Slow. Warm. Still, even in movement.
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