“Let’s see if we can get this thing down to the pasture to check on the cows,” her dad said, grinning like a kid setting out on a forbidden adventure. He shifted into reverse and gently nudged the accelerator. The truck backed up a few inches and then the wheels began to spin and it slid slowly sideways off the driveway into the yard. Inch by inch he maneuvered out of the yard onto the gravel drive where there was a little more traction. Emma shook her head when she saw the muddy ruts he had left in the yard.
“When Mom sees those ruts, your name’s going to be mud,” she said.
“It won’t be the first time,” he agreed, laughing.
The truck began to gain momentum as they drove down the gravel drive to the pasture gate. Emma got out and opened it, her boots crunching on the thin layer of snow. At the hay barn, Emma’s dad loaded several bales of hay in the back of the truck. On the way out into the pasture, the gravel drive gradually changed to a dirt road, and the truck began to fishtail. At the bottom of a small hill he began trying to build up speed to climb to the top of the rise, but about halfway up their forward motion slowed and then stopped. The tires spun and mud began to spray up behind them.
“Damn,” Emma’s dad muttered. “I thought we were going to make it.”
The cows, hearing the commotion, came running over the rise to meet them. They were used to being fed from the truck and knew the sound it made. Emma and her dad got out of the truck and began breaking open the bales of hay and spreading it around in piles on the icy slope. The cows slipped and slid and jostled each other to get the best pile.
“I’m going to have to walk back and get the tractor,” Emma’s dad said. “I’ll need you to steer when I pull the truck out of the ruts. Can you wait here until I get back?”
“Sure,” Emma answered. “You won’t be long, will you?”
“Nah! I’ll be back before the snow drifts over the top of the truck.”
As Emma waited in the chilly truck, a tiny patch of blue opened in the sky; but it soon disappeared behind the layer of clouds again. Light snow was still falling, but the sky seemed brighter. Maybe it was going to stop snowing and clear off. By now the working order would have been drawn in Ft. Worth. Miss Dellfene could be performing at this very moment. A wave of disappointment swept over her. Why did this freak snowstorm have to happen on the one day she had waited so long for? Any other day she would have welcomed it. Looking around at the alien landscape, she had to admit it was beautiful. The snow hid all the ugliness of winter in Texas. The trees with their coating of ice looked fresh from a fairytale. The loud popping of her father’s old tractor interrupted her reverie. He came putting down the hill and pulled the tractor in front of the truck. Backing up close, he climbed down and dragged the end of a thick log chain over, hooking it to the front of the truck. Then he opened the door and got in beside Emma.
“John called while we were stuck down here. He said Miss Dellfene drew number 223 and won’t be working until late tomorrow. Maybe we’ll still be able to get there in time to see her. Your mother said the weather radio calls for clearing this afternoon, so if the highways are clear by tomorrow morning we’ll leave early and spend the day in Ft. Worth.”
“That’s great,” Emma said, clapping her gloved hands with excitement. “I was just thinking about how we could be missing her performance right now.”
“True,” said her father. “This is one time I guess it was lucky not to be first.”
Emma steered the truck as her father pulled it cautiously out of the ruts and up the hill with the tractor. At the top, he unhooked the log chain and she drove slowly back to the gate. Emma had been driving in the pasture with her father since her legs were long enough to reach the pedals. There was always something he needed a driver for: throwing out hay in the winter, picking up bales of new hay in the summer, bringing the truck back from a just-planted field. He parked the tractor in the barn and slid into the driver’s seat.
“Better let me drive from here. That way if we slide off the driveway again, your name won’t have to be mud too.”
The electricity was still not on in the house, and the remains of last night’s chili were warming on the stove. Emma’s mom was on the phone.
“That was the electric company,” she said when she hung up. “There is a truck on its way out here now.”
“Radical,” Emma said. “It’s almost as cold in here as it is outside.”
The temperature is up to thirty degrees,” Emma’s father said, looking out the window at the thermometer on the front porch. “Maybe by this afternoon the roads will start thawing.”
The power finally flickered and then came on at four that afternoon. The trees dripped and the smallest breeze shattered their icy coating and sent it tinkling to the ground. The clouds thinned and then opened to let patches of blue show through. Emma’s father spent the afternoon checking water pipes for breaks and parceling out extra hay to the cows and horses. He called Kyle and told him to be ready to go to Ft. Worth the next morning. Kyle’s father volunteered to check the cows and horses while they were gone, and to feed and water the horses if they decided to stay overnight.
It took an hour for the house to warm up again. Television programs were interrupted every few minutes by bulletins about road conditions, and most evening events were still cancelled to keep traffic to a minimum. The Interstate opened again and weather reports showed that Ft. Worth missed out on most of the ice. Emma was yawning by nine o’clock, and went to bed early to recover from last night’s lack of sleep.
“We’ll get an early start in the morning,” Emma’s dad said. “That way we can take our time. There may still be icy patches and we sure don’t want to have an accident.”
Chapter Twelve
It seemed that Emma had barely closed her eyes when her mom called her the next morning, but as she pulled on her jeans the excitement began to return. The sun was a faint promise on the horizon when they went out to Emma’s mom’s car, sliding carefully in their boots over patches of refrozen ice in the driveway. When they drove up Kyle’s lane to pick him up, he was already outside waiting with his gym bag in spite of the icy chill.
“Morning, Veronica,” he said as he slid into the back seat beside Emma. “Thank Heaven for Texas weather. I was afraid we might miss the whole Futurity, but like they say, ‘If you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait a minute...it’ll change.’”
The small country roads still had slick spots, and Emma’s dad drove cautiously. When they got to the Interstate, the concrete was clear and dry. Traffic was flying along, but in the ditches abandoned cars testified to yesterday’s many ice-related accidents.
On the drive to Ft. Worth, Emma’s dad seemed determined to put a damper on the electric excitement buzzing around inside the car.
“We’ve got to be realistic,” he said. “There are over three hundred horses entered this year. They will be the best three-year-old cutting horses in the world, ridden by the best, most experienced trainers. It’s a one-in-a-million shot that peons like us will win. We are very, very lucky to have made it this far. Try not to be too disappointed if we’re heading home after the first go-round.”
“Oh, lighten up!” Emma’s mom said, smacking him gently on the shoulder. “We may not be one of the top dogs in the cutting horse world, but I think that little mare is eaten up with talent, in spite of her crooked knees. John Brown isn’t a nobody; he’s spent plenty of time in the winner’s circle. He wouldn’t bring her to the NCHA Futurity if he didn’t think she had a shot at winning. Besides, the top fifteen horses are winners and earn prize money. Let’s just think positive for now, and we’ll deal with disappointment when and if the time comes.”
“Atta girl, Mom!” Emma cheered.
* * *
The Will Rogers Coliseum in Ft. Worth turned out to be a cavernous, old building that seemed to echo with the whinnies of famous horses. Emma’s dad explained that since 1936, it had been the site of countless equestrian events. He pointed out the P
ioneer Tower that loomed above the domed coliseum while they were still several miles away. It was one of those rare December mornings when the rising sun glowed red through the misty air, and the world seemed filled with promise. The patches of snow that lingered on the ground at home were not evident as they approached Ft. Worth.
Parking in the huge lot, they made their way to the barns behind the coliseum to look for Miss Dellfene. In the aisles between the rows of stalls, Emma began to feel intimidated. Many of the stalls in the first barn sported shiny satin drapes with the names of famous ranches embroidered in bold letters. They were a lesson in western history; the King Ranch’s running W, Four Sixes with its distinctive brand displayed on the stalls, Waggoner Ranch, Shelton’s. A few of the ranches had more than one horse in the competition and a well-known country-western singer had entered five. Huge, decorated tack boxes stood in the aisles outside some of the stalls, while other ranches had taken an extra stall to use as a tack room. Everywhere she looked Emma saw evidence of money; silver trimmed halters and saddles, color posters of sires and grandsires attached to the fronts of stalls, men and women dressed as though they had just stepped out of a page in the Quarter Horse Journal. In the second barn, the displays weren’t quite so gaudy, and in the last aisle, where they found Miss Dellfene, names of horses and owners were printed on plain white paper and stapled to the stall door. John was not around, but the mare was quietly munching fresh hay and her water bucket was clean and full. She looked contented and calm, as though she came to compete in the Futurity every day. The blare of the microphone in the coliseum was amplified in the barns so that contestants would know the number of the horse that was working and could get ready before their numbers were called. Kyle reached over the door of Miss Dellfene’s stall to pat her on the neck, but she flattened her ears and backed away.
“Touchy, aren’t you?” Emma said to the little mare. “Must be more nervous than you look.”
The second day of the competition was already under way, and the announcer was reading a horse’s name and number, followed by the owner’s name and the rider’s. They walked back to the coliseum and were pleased to find lots of space to sit and watch. Emma’s parents chose seats above the herd of cattle where there were no obstructions to block their view of the action and scanned the audience looking for John Brown. Emma spotted him in the next section of the stands, and her father went over to find out how things were going. He sat with John for over an hour, watching the horses work. When he came back, he filled them in.
“Miss Dellfene won’t be working until late afternoon,” he said. “John is pleased because he’s had a couple of chances to ride her in here during the warm-ups. Yesterday there were a few horses that couldn’t get here because of the ice. They’re going to let them work out of order.”
Emma read the explanation of the judging system the NCHA used in a catalog she found on an empty seat. There were five judges, each sitting in a small booth on stilts that looked a little like a deer hunter’s blind. The booths were spaced out across the arena near the center and had one open side so the judges had an unobstructed view. As in the Olympics, the high and low scores were thrown out, and the other three added together. The morning passed quickly as one horse after another cut calves from the herd and did its best to impress the judges. Most of them seemed very competent and a few drew hoots of admiration from the crowd. Emma’s dad and Kyle went out to the lobby for more catalogs and came back with drinks and nachos for everyone. Kyle found a pen in his pocket and began diligently writing down the scores in his catalog as each horse performed.
“We need to know what number she has to beat,” he said. “Only half of these horses will advance to the second go-round.”
“Have you been doing research or something?” Emma asked. “How do you know so much about the Futurity rules?”
“I have a library card, Victoria, and I know how to use it. Here’s the pertinent information. There are deductions for cueing the horse with the reins or your feet. There’s a big deduction for letting a calf get by you and back into the herd, and there are a few other things that count off, too. The horses work for two and a half minutes each, and can cut out two or three head of cattle. Anything else you want to know?”
“If there is, I’ll ask,” Emma snapped.
In the middle of the afternoon, a bay mare, visibly terrified when her turn came, let a calf get past her into the herd and then ran off wildly toward the far end of the arena. Her rider had a hard time stopping her and she trembled all over as he turned her back toward the herd.
“Why do you think she’s so scared?” Emma asked her dad.
“I don’t know for sure,” he responded, “but I’ve heard that there are trainers who use too much physical punishment. I’m glad that John doesn’t resort to beating his horses when they make mistakes.”
The look in the terrified mare’s eyes haunted Emma for the remainder of the afternoon.
John was very upbeat about Miss Dellfene’s coming performance.
“She’s as good as any horse I’ve seen here,” he told them, “but there’s a lot of luck involved, so keep your fingers crossed.”
Then he walked off to get her ready for her two and a half minutes in the limelight.
At four o’clock they took a break for a change of cattle. The herd that was in the arena was driven out, and a new herd of fresh cattle brought in. The next ten horses came in to warm up in the back half of the arena, and Miss Dellfene was one of them. She looked small from way up in the stands, but when John loped her in circles and then executed some beautiful spins, she appeared capable and confident. Her ears flipped back and forth as she listened to John and watched the cattle. She was wearing white splint boots on her front legs that drew attention to her graceful movements. Emma was beginning to notice a fluttery feeling in her stomach.
John nodded to the judges and settled his hat lower when his name was called, and Miss Dellfene walked slowly down the middle of the arena toward the herd. Her ears showed that all her attention was focused on the cattle. When she got close to them, John slowed her even more, and step-by-step she quietly moved through the tightly packed calves to the back fence. The cattle moved out of her way, but her progress through them caused hardly a ripple. At the back fence, she turned slowly, put her nose down, and began to work her way back through them again. Emma realized that she was following a black steer and as he reached the outside of the herd and turned back to rejoin them, John turned her to block the steer’s path. She quickened her step and drove the steer out into the center of the arena, alone. John lowered his hand, and the reins fell in long, sweeping curves as he turned the mare loose to work. She blocked the steer’s every move with the graceful economy of motion that Emma had seen so often, sweeping back over her haunches each time the steer changed direction. When it grew tired of running and dodging in a fruitless effort to rejoin the others, it came to a standstill. John touched Miss Dellfene on the neck to let her know she was finished with the calf, and turned her back to the herd to cut another one. Choosing the next calf and moving it out into the arena seemed to happen in slow motion. Emma held her breath. The two and a half minutes must be almost over, but once more she began to outmaneuver the calf with practiced ease, leaping sideways to block its attempts to return to the herd. The buzzer sounded, but John let her continue until the calf turned its tail to her. John had explained to her that quitting a calf when it still challenged the horse was called a “hot quit” and was frowned on by judges. As Miss Dellfene walked calmly to the far end of the arena, Emma realized that her hands were numb from gripping the arms of her seat. A small icicle of fear formed in her stomach. Where had all the fancy moves gone? The dance steps had been missing from her performance.
“Look,” Kyle elbowed her gently.
The electronic scoreboard flashed her score: 215 ½.
“Look in your catalog,” Emma urged. “That’s a good score, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have to l
ook. She’s somewhere near the top.”
Emma risked a glance at her father. He was trying his best to stifle a huge grin.
“Beautiful!” he said quietly. “That ought to get her into the second go-round.”
* * *
That night they drove home again in a car filled with euphoria. Everyone was talking at once about Miss Dellfene’s performance and her score.
“I didn’t think it was going to be that good,” Emma admitted. “She didn’t do as much fancy footwork as I’ve seen her do in the past.”
“John told me he planned it that way,” her dad explained. “He’s saving the fancy frills for a later performance. Right now he just wants good herd work and correct position, and I guess that’s what she gave him. I’m still having to pinch myself every few minutes to be sure this is all real.”
“I guess she won’t work again until the day after tomorrow when the first go-round finishes,” Emma said.
“That’s right, her mom replied, “and that means that you two can go back to school tomorrow, and Dad and I can go back to work.”
“Gross!” Emma muttered.
* * *
At school she tried to keep the excitement out of her voice when she told Hannah and Katie about the first go-round of the Futurity.
“That’s so cool!” Katie said. “Has she won any money yet?”
“Not yet,” Emma answered.
She was surprised to find that, for her, it wasn’t about the money anymore.
At lunch she overheard Hannah talking to some girls at the next table as she came in with her tray.
“She could win a quarter of a million dollars and be the world champion,” Hannah told them.
Emma cringed at being part of another horse story. Candi Haynes would be sure to get wind of it, but Emma knew that Hannah was just talking about it because she was excited for Emma.
Emma and the Cutting Horse Page 10