“How about if I put him on the cross ties for you, and we can use your new brushes?” Stace asked, shifting gears. She eased Lizzie off to the side and haltered the pony. “He’s not too muddy, so we’re going to start with the curry. That’s the oval-shaped rubber one that fits in your hand. You’re going to make big circles with it, rubbing him all over his body to bring the dirt and loose hair to the surface of his coat. Please go grab that for me while I get him out of his stall.”
Lizzie did as she was told, moving so fast it was almost jerky, as if she was trying to prove that she could follow directions if they didn’t involve going into the stall with the pony.
Shelby’s stomach was doing nervous flip-flops, but when Lizzie looked over at her, she found a smile. “You’re doing great, Dizzy Lizzie. One step at a time, kiddo. Just listen to Stace and she’ll talk you through everything.”
Peppermint’s unshod hooves thudded on the cement, rasping as he turned his pudgy little body into the center of the aisle, where Stace clipped him onto a pair of long ropes that came down from high on the wall. “See how this keeps him in the middle so it’s safe to work around him? There’s other stuff we can do to stay safe, too. Whenever you’re working around a horse, you want to let him know you’re there by touching him, first where he can see you”—she demonstrated by stroking the pony’s shoulder—“then working your way around the back. You want to keep talking and touching him the whole time so he knows where you are. You don’t ever want to startle a horse or come up right behind him without letting him know you’re there, or else you might get kicked.” She moved back to the pony’s head. “Can you come over here and give him a pat on his shoulder so he knows you’re here?”
Lizzie stood pressed against the wall, clutching the pink currycomb in one white-knuckled fist. She didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head, didn’t do anything.
She couldn’t. And that was the hell of her condition.
Unable to bear it any longer—and not sure she was helping by staying out of the way—Shelby headed for the pony. “Hey, Peppermint! I’m Lizzie’s mom. Aren’t you a good boy?” She squatted near Peppermint’s shoulder, giving him a couple of pats the way Stace had demonstrated. “See, kiddo? He’s a good guy. Want to come give him some scritches?”
Nothing happened.
After a minute, Stace said, “Can you come over here and hand me the curry? I’ll give it to your mom so she can brush him for us.”
The currycomb dropped to the floor, bounced twice, and lay still. Lizzie’s eyes filmed with tears, and she was suddenly breathing hard and fast, huge gulping gasps that rattled in her chest.
Heart sinking, Shelby stood. “Hey, kiddo. No pressure, remember? We’re here to have fun. If this isn’t fun—”
Lizzie burst into tears, not silently, but with a wail of rage and pain, followed by raw sobs that were shocking after all the silence. Like a stutterer who could sing, she could cry at top volume.
Only when pushed to the edge, though. Only when it got to be too much.
“Oh, baby.” Shelby went to her knees and gathered her shaking daughter against her in a full-body hug that, no matter how hard she tried, still wasn’t enough to fix things. “It’s okay. You’re okay. There’s nothing scary here, and nobody’s mad at you.”
That was the best she’d been able to figure, that the meltdowns came when Lizzie felt pressured—to speak, to be normal, to be herself. Before, the pressure had come from her teachers, friends and family. Now it was coming from inside.
She so wanted to love the horses, but they terrified her. Maybe because of what had happened that first day, maybe just because they were bigger and stronger than her. It didn’t matter, really. It only mattered that she was clinging to Shelby, sobbing her heart out with wails that sounded like they were coming from an animal, a baby, something incapable of speech.
“What can I do?” Stace had gone pale, her eyes wide and dark.
“Nothing,” Shelby told her. “Not right now, anyway. And don’t stress, it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. We’re just going to have to call it a day for now.” Maybe for good. This was more than anxiety, more than a healthy pushing of the limits.
Heart twisting, she picked up her daughter and straightened. Lizzie clung, wrapping long arms and legs around her and burrowing in, helmet and all. Shelby’s back pinged a protest, but she ignored it to sway back and forth, whispering, “Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“Do you want me to get someone—”
“No. I’ve got her.” She tightened her grip, and said, softer, “I’ve got you. I promise.”
Lizzie didn’t hear, though. She was sobbing, shuddering, gulping for breath, with her face hidden away from the outside world as she fought the scary world inside her.
Knowing what her daughter needed—what they both needed—Shelby carried her all the way back to their cabin. Her legs burned and her back was howling by the time she got to the three short steps leading up, but she made it, all the way up and inside. She shut the door behind them so it was just the two of them against the world. And then she sat on the love seat, held her daughter close, and fought to hold back tears of her own.
5
Later that night, after Lizzie finally sniffled herself to sleep, Shelby put on one of her fancy new shirts and a pair of the butt-hugging jeans and headed toward the lake, where the noise and the flicker of firelight left no question as to where the party was going down. She really wasn’t in the mood, but figured she had to put in an appearance, both because she had promised Gran, and because the gossip would’ve made the rounds already—and she’d rather face the whispers and sympathetic looks now, without Lizzie.
She knew the drill.
When she got to the lake, though, she couldn’t make herself turn toward the bonfire, where Ty was playing something slow and bluesy on the guitar and several couples were slow-dancing, silhouetted against the fire with enough romance to make her cranky.
Instead, she headed the other way, toward the boathouse, where it was darker and quieter. Just need a minute. Then I’ll go eat, drink, and pretend to be merry.
The dock running out into the lake gave beneath her feet, and her boots echoed, sounding very loud. So loud, in fact, that she shucked them off, along with her socks, and carried them to where the boards ended. The float swayed beneath her feet and gave gently when she sat, with a rocking motion that took away some of the tension.
Yes, this was what she needed. Not being in the thick of the party, but being able to watch it across the lake, seeing the firelight and hearing the laughter and music. Blowing out a long, slow breath, she swung her feet around and into the water. And nearly yanked them right back out again. “Holy . . . brr!”
“It’s a little early in the year for swimming,” a man’s voice said from the darkness behind her.
Jolting, she almost landed right in the icy water. “Yeek!” She twisted around. “Foster? Is that you?”
She hadn’t seen much of the head wrangler over the course of the week, as he kept to himself and mostly stuck to the barn. She’d seen him from a distance, though, riding a tall bay gelding, with his shaggy black-and-white border collie always within whistling distance. She had seen how he led on the way out, then trailed behind the riders on the way home, making sure all the stragglers made it back safely. And she had noticed that even when Ty and the others scattered for the day, Foster stayed behind to finish up whatever needed finishing, often burning the lights in the barn long after sunset.
She hadn’t been looking for him, not really, but she had been aware of him all week, just as she was very aware of him now. The moon was waning, the firelight too faint to show her any details, but she could just make out the denim jacket he’d pulled on against the chill, and the curve of the black hat he wore low on his brow.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He moved closer so he was standing over her, the dock dipping farther beneath his weight. “Not in the mood for a party?”
“Not so much.” She clicked on her little flashlight, gave him an up-and-down, and hid the thudding of her heart by frowning at his boots. “How did you sneak up on me in those things? I sounded like a Budweiser Clydesdale.”
“Practice.” He squatted down beside her. “Nice night. Smells like rain, though.”
If you say so. “You didn’t follow me out here to talk about the weather.” She paused. “Stace told you what happened.” There was no reason to be embarrassed, she reminded herself, no reason to wish she and Lizzie could’ve met him at their best. And no reason to want to take a deep breath, much as she did every morning when she came into the kitchen, only this time inhaling his scent rather than the smell of Gran’s baking.
He stared out over the water. “I owe you an apology. If it hadn’t been for Brutus spooking—”
“Don’t, please. The if-onlys will make you crazy.” She grimaced, though she doubted he could see it in the darkness, even if he’d been looking. “Ask me how I know.”
“Maybe she’ll come around, given some time and patience. Stace said she really wants it, and the horse-crazy thing can be a powerful motivator.” He paused. “I’ve had kids start out terrified of even the dogs, and been riding by the end of the week. Lizzie is good with the other animals, and you’ve got time to work on it. She’ll come around.”
“Maybe.” Across the lake, the partiers were line dancing around the fire, arms linked, legs kicking like they were trying out for the Rockettes. “Let’s just say that I haven’t had a lot of luck waiting her out. That’s part of why we’re here.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Two years.” Her throat ached on the words. It had been two years since she heard her daughter’s voice. Two years of therapists, cognitive behavior modification, stress reduction, and strict routines, none of which had really changed anything. And now . . . “I told myself not to get my hopes up for a quick fix, but I never would’ve guessed it’d go like this. I thought the horses would be perfect. Everything I read about therapeutic riding . . . well, I guess it all assumes that the patient isn’t terrified of the horses.”
“They’re big animals, she’s already taken a fall, and she’s nervous.”
“It was more than nerves. It was . . .” She shook her head. “The mutism is rooted in anxiety, so adding more stress into the mix isn’t going to help, not the way Gertie had hoped.”
“So where does that leave you?”
“Cooking ranch food for the summer while my daughter hangs out in the cabin and reads? I don’t know. Maybe she’d like to learn how to fish. Or, heck, maybe I should just take her home.” She shook her head. “No, scratch that. I couldn’t leave Krista and Gran in the lurch. Which means I’m back to ‘I don’t know.’” She glanced over at him. “Tell me you’re here because you’ve got a suggestion.” Maybe he and Stace had put their heads together.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
She stared at his profile. “Really?”
“I think you should take a few lessons yourself.”
“I . . . what?” Her stomach gave a queer little twist.
“The therapies are all about modeling behavior, right? When kids can talk to their families at home, but not anyone outside, you either bring a teacher or therapist into the home or send the parents to school, set up a safe environment, and work on making the kids feel comfortable enough to talk. Once they’ve got that down, you gradually introduce new people or places, adding a little bit at a time and showing them they can do it.” At her startled look, he shrugged. “After Stace told me what happened, I did some poking around. Google is my friend.”
“Seriously?”
“Just because parts of cowboying go back to the eighteen hundreds doesn’t mean it all does. I’ve even got an iPhone. Er, somewhere.”
“Well, then.” Really, though, it wasn’t the computer she was questioning. It was him. Why was he doing this? Krista was a softie, Gran needed her help, and Stace wanted a case study for extra credit. And they were all warm, kind, and friendly. Foster, though . . . she didn’t know where he was coming from. He was an undeniable presence at the ranch, but he wasn’t a joiner, didn’t seem like he wanted a friend. Yet he’d looked up SM therapies online, and he’d sought her out to talk about them.
“The way I see it, you’re doing the same sort of modeling, except it’s harder because she’s completely silent, so you’re down to encouraging any interaction at all. Stace said you tried all the by-the-books stuff back home, with no luck, so Gertie suggested coming here.”
Her throat threatened to clog with the emotions that were way too close to the surface, threatening the “everything’s okay” attitude she did her best to maintain. Lizzie needed to see her being calm and in control, needed to feel like there wasn’t anything to fear, no pressure, no anxiety. But that was such a crock. Shelby wanted to shout on a daily basis, wanted to scream, wanted to pitch a fit and demand to know why this had happened to Lizzie, to them—only there wasn’t anyone to ask, nobody to answer, leaving them both locked in silence. It was maddening, heartbreaking, exhausting.
Oh, so exhausting.
Foster didn’t need to know any of that, though. He was offering to help, and didn’t need her spewing at him the way she’d blathered at Krista. So she breathed past the surge of tears and kept herself together. As she always did. Deep breath. Voice low and steady, she said, “She’s always liked animals. We thought . . . I thought that learning to ride would make her feel brave. Maybe even that the horses would be something she could talk to.”
“It could still work that way, which is why I think you should do some riding. You’re not at home anymore, not around familiar things. SM kids are all about being in a safe place, right? So maybe you need to be her safe place, even when it comes to riding.”
“But the horses are her thing, not mine. I wanted her to do it . . .” She shook her head, frustrated. “I wanted her to be brave and do it alone. Which just made things worse, didn’t it?”
“Not every training moment is going to be a good one. Trust me on that one.”
She bristled. “She’s not a horse.”
“No offense intended, Mama Bear. That’s just how my brain is wired.” He tapped his temple. “Cowboy, you know.”
Deciding to let it go, she looked at him sidelong. “Mama Bear?”
“A grizzly protects her cubs no matter what, and she’s fierce at it.” The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. “You should’ve seen yourself coming into the barn to rescue her that first day.”
“I looked like a grizzly?”
“Not exactly, but let’s go with it.”
“Hm. So Lizzie is, what, a high-strung horse that needs to be sacked out?” Maybe it wasn’t the worst comparison. In the absence of words, they were stuck reading her body language and guessing at the cues.
His eyes glinted. “Ridden some greenies, have you?”
“I’m not sure two years of doing donuts at the local riding school counts as the kind of riding you’re talking about.” And neither did the horse-crazy phase when she read every horse book she could get her hands on, and watched The Black Stallion over and over again on the VCR, crying a little when Alec and the Black galloped along the deserted island and slept together near the fire, neither of them alone anymore.
Kid stuff, she thought, and didn’t let herself yearn.
“Everything counts,” Foster said firmly. “And I don’t think she needs sacking out—that’d just scare her worse. No, this would be more like when we use an experienced horse to help settle a timid greenie. Baby horses can’t exactly hold their mama’s hand, but they get reassurance from physical contact, by bumping up against bigger, stronger horses. They also take cues on whether stuff is scary or not, watching to see what their older herd mates do. So when I’m training a nervous young horse, I’ll ride out with someone else on a veteran and let mine get in real close if he needs to. In the early stages it’s not about a yo
ungster learning how to be brave on his own. It’s about getting him out there and doing the job. Then, later, you can wean him off the buddy system and get him working alone.”
Ranch-isms aside, it resonated. “So, from a training perspective, you think I should be the old gray mare? Is that better or worse than a grizzly?” She shifted, wondering if he could sense her discomfort, wondering what he thought about it.
“I think you should be right there for your daughter to lean on while she tries something new, just like you’ve always been.”
She swallowed to ease her suddenly tight throat. “By riding with her rather than watching from the sidelines.”
“When you’re training a greenie, especially one that’s prone to getting twitchy, it’s important to stay flexible. There are hundreds of different ways to train a horse, some with big names and advertising budgets, others that fall under the headings of gut feel or ‘because that’s the way my grandpappy did it.’ No one theory is going to work on every horse, and with some horses you wind up going through a whole lot of theories before you hit on one that gets the job done.”
“So, how do you know which one will work?”
“Most of the time, you don’t. Not right off, anyway. You give something a really good shot, and if it doesn’t work, you try something else.” He paused. “Question is, are you ready to try something else?”
She wavered. “I can’t expect Krista to fund lessons for both of us.”
“Krista’s in charge of the main house, but when it comes to the barn, I’m the man.”
Yes, you are. She might’ve thought it before, but now it was confirmed—he wasn’t just a cowboy; he was a smart, well-spoken guy who knew himself and knew his stuff, and she liked that. And despite their rocky start, she was beginning to like him, and not just in an “ooh, pretty” way. She respected the way his mind worked. Plus, she appreciated that he’d apologized for Lizzie getting scared, even if it wasn’t his fault, and . . . Well, she liked him. A lot.
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 6