The wheelbarrow leaned against a wall with a few other utensils. I retrieved what I needed and got to work.
~~~
Hank dropped by around three. He whistled when he came in, stopped outside the stall where I was. “Shit fire,” he said.
“No kidding.” I didn’t know what he meant, but agreed.
A wheelbarrow full of saturated dark-brown straw stood in the stall door. The fumes stung my eyes, I’d been sweating for hours. No telling what my hair looked like where it stuck out from under my baseball cap. I’d made it through half the stalls, found a bag of lime and sprinkled some over the dirt floors to help absorb the smell and also thrown several bales of fresh straw down from the loft in preparation to re-bed. The manure pile had doubled in size, and it was already too big to begin with.
“Looks like alotta work for a Sunday,” Hank said. “You make them boys look like they’s in reverse.” He looked around and whistled again. “How’s it goin’?” he asked.
I wiped my arm across my face. “It’s fine.”
“Need anything?”
I had a list, but didn’t think he really wanted to hear it. “Where’s the nearest store with pitchforks and stuff?”
To add insult to injury, I hadn’t been able to locate a straw fork. No wonder the place was such a mess. Didn’t matter today, the stalls needed to be stripped, no finesse involved. A big shovel did the job.
“MFA’d be best. Other side of town. Run you up myself in the morning. Need a couple things too.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
“Missus’ll have supper ready in about a hour. We’re the next place down.”
He jerked his thumb past his ear to indicate the direction and was gone before I could protest.
~~~
The next morning my back ached when I went down to feed. I brought twelve horses in and rounded up halters and lead lines and tied the remaining six to spots along the fence and gave each one a bucket of feed.
I watched them for a while, then went in to sort through the tack. There were five English saddles and five Western. None were labeled, but Smitty and Fawn were both on the list for the morning’s ride, so I started with them and waited for Norman.
He motored in on a four-wheeler at eight-thirty. Talk about duded up. Fake alligator shit kickers with chrome toe guards and skin-tight Levi’s hugging a barely-there ass. The pearly snaps of his plaid shirt were left open too far down revealing a totally naked and pale chest, and the straw ten-gallon boater on his head could rescue a family of five. His beady eyes darted around the barn.
“You’ve been busy,” he said.
“Yeah. So, who are Cheyenne, Honey, Oreo, Brownie, and Kismet?” I rattled off the names on the list. “I have Smitty and Fawn groomed, but wasn’t sure whether they go English or Western.”
He hesitated. “Uh.”
Which didn’t tell me much. He retrieved the list, moving fast. Maybe Norman had some get-up-and-go after all. Shortly, we had them all ready, although Norman’s grooming skills left much to be desired. He went through the motions, but barely removed the sweat marks still left on some horse’s backs from Saturday, and although he picked up each hoof, I think all he did was clink the hoof pick against their shoes. When he went to get saddles and bridles, I redid his job.
The tack was serviceable and plain and in need of saddle soap and neatsfoot oil. The polyester sheepskin pads were glazed with dried dirty sweat.
“Is there a washing machine around here?” I asked Norman.
“Yeah, sure.” He led me to the back of the feed room where he pushed a plaid horse blanket on the floor. I opened the washing machine and closed it just as quick. There was something in there, something that had been there for a while and had mildewed beyond recognition. I thought I caught the flicker of a smile skitter across Norman’s narrow face
“Gross,” I said. “What’s in there?”
He shrugged. “Leg wraps, maybe. Don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember.”
His shoulders hitched again and he gave me a “tell it to somebody who gives a shit” face, and turned on his heel. “Gotta make the coffee. Always have coffee when they get here.”
I followed him into the tack room where he pulled a Mr. Coffee machine from the cabinet under the sink, then filters and a small can of coffee.
“What, exactly, is your job?” I asked him.
“Head wrangler. This is my last week. I’m moving on, you know, bigger and better things.”
Whatever. Wrangler? Where did he think we were, Wyoming? “Are there assistant wranglers?”
“A couple kids come after school to help out sometimes.”
Oh, boy.
I turned to the washer, twisted the knob to hot, stood back, opened it, dumped in bleach, and dropped the lid.
The riders arrived, one by one. If the half-clean barn, or the lack of cobwebs, or the swept aisle surprised any, not one made a comment. They all rode regularly on Monday so there was no need to assess their ability. We went straight to the trails. Norman led on Captain, a bay gelding, and I followed on Cali. It didn’t take much to see they were all beginners, and the ride consisted mostly of walking and butt-numbing trot. A heavy-set woman atop Honey almost slipped off around a turn. Her legs stuck straight out, but she had a death grip on the horn and righted herself before hitting the dirt.
Norman wanted to be John Wayne, but he was shorter and skinnier than me. Cowboy boots and hat didn’t get him close to The Duke. He’d waited for everyone else to mount, then swung to Captain’s back from the ground.
He’d kneed the horse in the belly and over tightened the girth first to make this stunt practical, since he put all his weight on the saddle horn to hoist himself up. He rode like an idiot—all toes and elbows—and bounced and jerked the reins.
Captain suffered the act with patience, one of many saintly horses I’ve known. I didn’t say anything to Norman right then, and maybe I wouldn’t. After all, he’d be gone soon. On the other hand, his show-off style bordered on abuse, and if he were going to be working with horses, I could do them all a favor if I taught him a couple of things in the next week.
When we returned to the barn, Hank was waiting to take me to the MFA. As soon as the horses were settled, we set off in his faded blue pickup. Norman muttered something about things to do, mounted his four-wheeler, and took off in the other direction, up the gravel road past Hank’s.
At dinner the night before, Hank had promised to bring his tractor and manure spreader over and start working on the manure pile. But when he dropped me back at the barn after we finished shopping, he had to go till Clara’s garden.
I’d stuffed myself the night before with Clara’s fried chicken—one that had been alive and pecking that morning. There’d been green beans from last year’s garden, scalloped potatoes, salad from this year’s garden, iced tea, and some kind of pie so gooey sweet it set my teeth on edge. I ate a piece to be polite. There was no coffee to wash it down, but I managed with the tea. I usually skip dessert, but she insisted.
“What do you mean, you don’t want pie?”
The look on her face had been pure astonishment, like I’d landed from another planet. Disappointment and determination twisted her mouth, and there’d been a knife in her hand. She held it loosely, almost carelessly, but I didn’t doubt she knew how to use it, or would hesitate, if the need arose. I don’t think anyone messes with Clara, especially when it comes to pie.
Hank went to till the garden, his truck leaving behind a billow of dust, and I went upstairs to call Pen. On the way, I mused that the morning had been a resounding success. I hadn’t been bitten, stomped on or kicked, and no one had called me “the new girl.” Today, I would finish cleaning the stalls.
Pen picked up on the third ring, and I could tell she’d been running.
“Where’d I get you from, the basement?”
“Just the other room.”
“Really? Are you okay?”
&
nbsp; “It’s being pregnant. I’m out of breath all the time.”
All the time? She was only five months along, barely showing when I left, but she was a little chubby to begin with. Still, an alarm went off in my head.
“What does your doctor say?”
“I see him tomorrow. Don’t worry about me. How’s everything there, better?”
I’d drop it for now, check again later. “Today I learned MFA stands for Missouri Farmer’s Association,” I told her. “And an elevator is where they take the corn and wheat and soybeans after the harvest, and store it in big, round, metal buildings to dry before it gets shipped to Russia, or wherever.”
“We use some of that stuff in this country,” she said.
I knew that. Don’t I eat only whole-grain bread? And tofu? In fact, I'd thrown away what the well-intentioned Mr. Malcolm left in the fridge. White bread. Jesus. Okay, I don’t believe in wasting food. I gave it to the birds.
“Both the MFA and the elevator sell feed and supplies and stuff. I bought a straw fork. No wonder the stalls were such a mess. He didn’t even have the right equipment.” Another part of my brain suggested that his equipment was perfect.
“Well, that’s what you’re there for. So, it’s okay?”
Okay? Hell no it wasn’t okay. “The neighbor’s a great cook.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Do you think you could feel at home there?”
Penny had a theory about “home” which was definitely tied to “where the heart is.” In my case, she said the root of all my problems was homesickness—not because I missed it, but because I’d never found my true home. I’m not big on theories.
“I guess it will be all right, except for Mr. Malcolm acting like a dick-head yesterday.” Not like I had a choice. Winterlight would be my address for a year, if not my home. “I’m getting the stalls clean, so things smell better. Hank says he’ll teach me to drive the tractor, and I can empty the manure spreader in one of the fields. I’ll be a goddamned farmer.”
“Sounds great. So, what does he look like?”
That’s Penny. Warn me off the guy one minute, then breathlessly insist on his vitals the next. She’d talked to Malcolm on the phone and no doubt formed a vivid opinion of him already.
“Didn’t you tell me to stay away from him?”
“You should. That doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about him. Now, give it up.”
Penny is smart and funny and artistic—though she doesn’t do anything with her talent. She fell in love with a plumber. Not that there’s anything wrong with plumbers. Frank’s nice, a little short, going bald, growing a beer belly, and has no interests beyond football and pork rinds. He supports her, but not in any way that matters.
Anyway, Frank’s not exactly the hunk on the cover of the books she reads. She lives vicariously through the guys I know, some of whom could model for book covers. You couldn’t necessarily have a conversation with them, and some of them are gay, but I have known some very handsome men.
“He’s tall—over six foot, I’m sure.”
“Yeah. Go on.”
“He’s got longish light-brown hair with streaks of gold in it like a life guard.” I figured I might as well lay it on thick for her, not that I was exaggerating. “Blue eyes—with humor in them.” When he’s not being a prick. “You’ve heard his deep voice.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go on.”
I ticked off the rest. “Broad shoulders, flat stomach, strong jaw, high cheekbones, sexy when he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. Looks great in breeches.”
Penny moaned. “Oh my God, Vi, how can you stand it?”
“I’ll manage. Pretty is as pretty does, you know. Anyway, he’s married.” But his wife wasn’t around, and I wondered what that meant. Somehow, I thought there was more to it than just visiting family. “Married’s off-limits, even for me.”
“I know. Anything else?”
“Well,” I said, drawing it out. “There is one thing.”
“Yeah?” Anticipation laced her voice.
I delivered the kicker. “He wears a kilt.”
She dropped the phone.
- 5 -
Later that day, another Midwestern-farm-grown example of male pulchritude strolled in, and the first thing I thought was, wait till I tell Pen.
He rolled up in a Ford pickup of indeterminate color—might have been green at one time, but it was mostly rust with dashes of primer. The right headlight hung down like a gouged-out eye, and the tailgate had gone missing. Half an antenna stuck up from the hood, duct tape criss-crossed the back window, and the roof looked like an elephant had danced on it. Baling wire held the driver’s-side door closed.
The guy who stepped out, after scooting across the bench seat to exit the passenger side, was tall and lanky with straight, dark hair and a smooth, well-trimmed beard. He was in much better shape than his truck.
I squeezed water from the sponge in my hand and rubbed at a persistent spot of sweat on Captain’s bridle. My visitor wore a green cap that said, “Nothing runs like a Deere,” a plain, white tee-shirt with an oil stain on one side and a tear on the other, and unlaced work boots crusted with mud. His jeans were so worn down the fronts of his thighs, they were white, and the knees were blown out. The faded blue fabric looked especially thin over the bulge at the base of his fly.
When he entered the barn, Noire lowered her tail and growled deep in her throat. I trust her instincts. If my dog thinks someone’s not quite right, then someone’s not quite right. She’s better at that than I, but sometimes I ignore her.
He acknowledged me with a sweeping gaze that landed on Noire. “Mac around?”
“Out of town. Can I help you?”
His eyebrows pushed his cap up, then he leaned one elbow on a rung of the ladder leading up to the loft and shook a cigarette out, started to light it.
“There’s no smoking in the barn.”
“Since when?”
I didn’t know him, and he looked great, so I decided not to bite. Noire planted herself between us, clearly less certain this was the right course of action. I smoothed her ears. She kept her eyes on the stranger. “Smoking is never allowed in horse barns,” I explained. “It’s dangerous.”
“Really,” he said. He glanced at the cigarette, up toward the loft, then shrugged and shoved the cig back in the pack. “Never thought about it, but I see your point."
He dug a toothpick out of his pants pocket and stuck that in his mouth instead, rolling it with his tongue. Reminded me of a guy I saw careening down the Long Island Expressway once in a Cadillac Eldorado with a toothpick and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth at the same time.
“I’m JJ. You must be my replacement.”
I’d replaced two men. That appealed to me. Okay, maybe one and a half, since Norman was the other. JJ must be the non-horse person Malcolm referred to.
“JJ, nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Vi.”
He hesitated, wiped his palm on his jeans, then crossed the aisle. Well-defined biceps bulged when he squeezed my hand, and a tingle went right to my belly.
Noire made a quick sideways movement to get out of his way. The sudden motion surprised JJ, and he jumped, jerking my arm.
“Brought your guard dog, huh?”
It was my turn to shrug. I’m not sure what she would do if pressed, but I wasn’t above using her image to my advantage. “I wouldn’t mess with her.”
He stepped back with a smile that amped my tingle to a warm hum.
“Cool,” he said with a nod, and added, “Vi.” He glanced around the barn, sliding the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You’ve done a lot of work since you got here. Place looks good. Mac’ll be pleased.”
“It’s getting there,” I said, trying to fight a feeling of gratification. Anything would have been an improvement. “Still plenty to do.”
JJ’s eyes moved from my face down to my toes and back. “I’ve some time this afternoon, especiall
y since Mac’s not here. Need any help?”
Interesting question. If he hadn’t done his job before, why the sudden interest? The answer didn’t really matter since I’d be glad to let him do some heavy lifting—cleaning the stalls he’d let become such a mess in the first place. I wouldn’t mind watching those biceps in action for a little while.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d appreciate that.” I put the shovel in the wheelbarrow and pushed it where it needed to be, pointed to the mass of wet straw and manure. “Everything out. Down to the floor.”
His cap moved up again. Whatever he’d had in mind, this wasn’t it. Then, a wry smile creased one cheek, and the warm hum in my belly expanded into my chest.
“No problemo,” he said. He grabbed the shovel and went to work.
Twenty minutes and three trips to the ever-growing manure pile later, he had the one stall done. Sweat darkened his tee-shirt and glossed his skin. The indentation at the base of his throat had a tiny pool of moisture collected in it. The bicep action had been good. Not that I stood there staring. I found things to do that kept me walking past while he worked. Each time, he smiled that wry half-smile at me, and my internal motor revved.
JJ removed his cap and smoothed his short hair. “How’s that?” he asked.
I made a show of inspecting the stall. “Nice work,” I said, but I wasn’t looking at the stall. “Thanks.”
He tilted the wheelbarrow against the wall, hung up the shovel, and grabbed the broom. The aisle had been perfectly clean when he arrived. He swept his leavings out the back door, replaced the broom on its hook. Not bad. Maybe Malcolm hadn’t given him any instructions about how to keep the stalls clean.
On the Buckle Page 4