by Tudor Robins
In and out, in and out, the showers blow back and forth across the B&B all afternoon while I check my watch. When can I go? When will this rain end? How soaked will Salem be?
As I finish folding the last of the line-rescued laundry, the heaviness has lifted from the air, and it’s been long enough since the last downpour that the surface of the gravel is drying to a light grey.
“Off you go.” Betsy says. “You obviously have something on your mind. We’ve got the food prepped. Dinner at six-thirty?”
“See you then!”
**********
I push through the final invisible, killer rise up to Jared’s driveway, standing on my pedals, using all my weight to thrust my bike forward. I prop it against the fence by the mailbox and go to find Salem.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still looking for her. I called at the gate. Nothing. Shook a bucket of sweetfeed. Snapped a carrot. Both of these noises are almost certain to start a stampede with most horses. Still no Salem.
Maybe Jared put her in the barn. But when I step inside, the barn’s empty. The air’s quiet and close – like a church. Things scuttle in the corners, but they’re much smaller things than an appaloosa mare. I climb up to the hayloft and scan the fields in all directions, as far as I can see. No black and white spotted bum anywhere.
I kick a bale of hay, and a barn cat scrambles out from behind it. “Sorry girl, but if I don’t find that damn horse soon, I’ll have to head straight back to Betsy’s.”
I’m just dropping back down from the waist-high bottom rung of the hayloft ladder when Jared walks in.
“Hi,” he says, slow and with a smile in his voice.
A smile grows in me in response. “Hi, back.”
“What’s up?”
I hold up the worn lead shank Salem came with in one hand, my carrot in the other. “Oh, you know, I have this little thing called a horse to look after.”
“You like her?”
“Sure. Yes. Of course.” Not that I know what I’m going to do with her, but the way he’s waiting, smiling, I know “Yes” is the right answer.
“So, can you show her?”
I have no idea. Don’t know a thing about her. Don’t even know if I want to show again. I smile. “Probably.”
“Great!”
“But I definitely won’t be showing her if I can’t start working with her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve just spent ages looking for her. I have a feeling I’m going to feel kind of stupid when you tell me where you’ve put her.”
“Damn!” He drops the pitchfork he’s holding and power walks out of the barn.
“Jared?” I follow him. “Jared? What is it?”
He climbs up on the bottom rail of the fence, tugs his baseball cap down low over his eyes, and scans right to left. “Damn!” He drops down, strides over to the truck, opens the passenger door and sweeps his arm wide. “Hop in. We’d better start looking.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is there something I should know?”
He shifts from one foot to the other. “Don’t waste time. Just get in.”
As soon as he settles onto the seat beside me, I try again. “Is there, perhaps, a reason your friend Tom was so willing to get rid of Salem?”
He turns the key, and the truck rolls forward, accompanied by the crunch of gravel compressed under rubber.
Jared glances at me, then looks left as we turn onto the road. “I thought it was his fences. Tom’s not exactly the most careful guy. He doesn’t keep his place in the best shape. He said she was a runner, but I figured she more wandered away than ran. And, anyway, he said she hadn’t done it for ages. He figured she’d grown out of it.”
“Great. Fantastic.” I had a horse for a little while.
We’re heading south, toward the highway. Behind us, the road travels through more fields, then an orchard, and finally peters out into a makeshift ramp leading straight into the St. Lawrence. Ahead of us runs the blacktop. “How do you know which way to go?”
“I don’t. But if she’s gone the other way I’m not too worried.”
Whereas if she’s gone this way, you are. No point saying it. I jam my hands under my thighs, lean forward, and squint at the horizon.
Horse. Highway. Cars. My chest tightens, with my heart thrumming too loud, too hard, against the underside of my ribs. I usually feel this way in the middle of the night; reliving the accident I can’t go back and change. Only that’s in the past. This is here, now, and the pressure’s on to make a difference this time.
We turn onto the asphalt and Jared scans one side while I watch the other. We cruise along slowly, go as far as the first curve of the huge S-bend the highway takes on its way into the village. He brakes, then sweeps the truck in a broad U-turn and heads back. I grip the edge of the seat, my fingernails sinking into the vinyl underside. What if she’s just a little further on?
At the same time I’m rocking in my seat – What if she’s back this way and we wasted all this time?
I’m glad Jared’s driving, taking control, making decisions. The clutter in my head would never let me do it.
We speed along the section of road we’ve already covered, then slow as we pass the turn-off to the Old Concession Line into fresh territory. Concentrate. Look hard.
Jared checks his watch.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Five-twenty-five.” The time pressure I thought I was under for my mom’s visit seems like a joke compared to this.
The ferry could already be docked. A surge of cars will whiz by here any minute now, driving fast, determined to get home after a long day on the mainland. Not expecting to see an appaloosa mare in the middle of the tarmac. One of them could even be my mother’s car.
I shiver at the possibly disastrous results for both horse and driver.
Jared keeps driving.
We come to another sharp bend and he slows, negotiates a second wide U-turn. “I think it’s time to start making some calls.” He fishes his phone out of his hip pocket and hands it to me. “You call while I drive. I’ll give you some names.”
“Let’s call Carl first.” I’m too nervous to talk to a stranger. Carl is solid. Carl knows everyone around here. Carl would be a great dad to have, and neither Jared nor I have a dad we can call right here and right now.
Jared nods. “OK, I’ll start driving that way. Maybe he can help us.”
My fingers fumble, and I have to clear the number and start again. “Crap!”
Re-thumb it and Betsy picks up on the second ring. “South Shore B&B!” The carefree happiness in her voice catches me off-guard.
“Betsy! We need help. Jared and I are looking for a horse. A loose horse. We’re worried she might be on the highway.”
Jared touches the brakes and I glance up. A hundred feet ahead, under a shade tree by the edge of the road, is a large shape. Hope lifts my shoulders. Jared creeps forward until the shadow resolves into better view. I shake my head. A horse, alright, but not Salem and not loose. There’s a hard-to-see barbed-wire fence between it and the road.
“Sorry, Betsy what was that?” I’m pushed against the back of the seat as Jared picks up speed again. “I missed what you said.”
“I asked if it was the black horse with the spotted bum.”
“What? How do you know that?” I’m only half paying attention as I continue to scan the fields.
“I’m looking at her.”
It takes a minute for the words to sink in. “Stop!” I yell to Jared, and he brakes, throwing us both forward toward the dash. “No, wait, sorry, I don’t mean stop, I mean go! Go to Betsy and Carl’s!”
Betsy’s talking again in my ear. “Not here. Up by the turn-off to the cottage. I’ve just spotted her through the binoculars. Your mother drove up, and the first thing she said is ‘There’s a horse loose on the road.’”
“My mother?” My mother. “Shit!”
“What is it?” Jared asks.
“Nothing. Sh
e’s actually straight ahead. We should see her any minute … there she is! … Thanks Betsy. We’ve got her.” I hand the phone back to Jared as I swing out of the truck. My legs are weak with a combination of relief and dread. Just because she’s here doesn’t mean she’s OK.
I hold my hand up to tell Jared to hang back a minute.
Walk slowly. No blood that I can see. Don’t spook her. Nothing wound around any part of her body. Don’t send her off again. All four legs on the ground, bearing weight.
I exhale and my whole body responds – blood pumping, heart thumping – which is how I realize I’ve been holding my breath far too long.
After all that, her “capture” is a major anti-climax. I walk up to her, lead shank behind my back, and she reaches out and noses her muzzle into my outstretched hand. I click the rope on, and she’s caught.
“Oh, you!” I cup her jaw in my hands, and press my face against hers, then step back and run my hands over her unmarked neck, down her sound legs. She’s fine.
“Are you OK?” Jared’s beside me. “You’re shaking.”
I leave one hand on her shoulder, and turn to face him. “It’s just that … after what happened to Major … I was a little freaked out.”
Jared blinks twice, then nods. “Yeah, things like that stick with you.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m so glad she’s OK.”
“Me too.” He gives her a tentative pat. “Now, what are we going to do with her?”
Euphoria surges through me. No longer preoccupied with Salem’s imminent death or maiming, my brain floods with half-formed ideas about how to handle her running away. “Well, for tonight, I’m thinking keep her in the barn. Let me look into it – Google some things, read some forums – and maybe I’ll have some ideas by tomorrow.”
“I kind of meant now. Should I go get the trailer?”
“That depends. Is the bridle Tom sent over with her still in the back of the truck?”
“You’re not going to ride her …”
“Why not?”
“Because you never have before, and she just ran away, and you don’t know anything about her.”
A long answer tumbles around in my brain. A long boring answer. I shake my head to clear it, look Jared straight in the eyes and say, “I’m good at this.”
Jared leaves me holding a still-grazing Salem. Comes back from the truck with Salem’s very dirty bridle, and the biggest, clunkiest-looking helmet I’ve ever seen.
“What on earth is that?”
“This is the helmet I keep back there in case I ever need to hop on an ATV.”
“It’s huge. I don’t even think I can hold my head up under it.”
He holds it out in front of him. “It’s a deal-breaker. You don’t have to ride her, you know. I’m sure it wouldn’t take that long to lead her home …”
“God, you’re worse than my mother.” Which reminds me to walk Salem about twenty feet to the right; just to where a huge pine tree obscures our view of Betsy and Carl’s and, presumably any view they – and my mom – might have of us.
When Jared follows with the helmet, I take it, jam it on my head. It’s ten degrees hotter inside. It covers my ears. Mental note: Get riding helmet out of shed and bring to Jared’s.
“You look so cute!”
I stick my tongue out. “Can’t hear you!”
It takes thirty seconds to slip the bit between Salem’s teeth, and the brow band over her ears, then I bend my leg at the knee, with my calf out behind me. “Here, leg me up.”
A mumble reaches me that sounds something like, “I don’t like this …”
“Trust me. Lift on three. One, two, three …” It’s as ungracious as most first-time leg-ups are. Jared’s not sure what he’s doing, and we don’t have any established rhythm between us. He doesn’t lift until a beat after I say “three”. Salem sidesteps away from our ineptitude, and I’m in danger of sliding right back off again, until Jared plants his hand firmly on my butt and hefts me into place.
I sit up, gather my reins, and straighten the ridiculous helmet. “Good. That’s done.” I resist the urge to smooth my own hand over the still-tingling place on my backside where Jared’s rested just a minute ago.
“Let’s go girl.” I squeeze her gently, cluck lightly. She steps into a willing walk and we’re off, heading up the driveway toward home.
It’s been ages since I’ve ridden bareback, and I’ve forgotten the sheer pleasure of having such a broad, warm surface beneath me: living, breathing, moving hair over skin, over muscle.
I’ve also forgotten how bony a horse’s withers are when you hit them wrong. That comes back to me when I cluck Salem up into a trot, and she leaps forward, sending me into an uncomfortable series of bumps and bounces.
I take a deep breath, let go of the tension built up during our runaway horse hunt, and a change sweeps through both of us. Salem lowers her head and reaches for the bit. With each step originating from her strong hind quarters, her strides are long, powerful, smooth.
My hips loosen to absorb her motion, and my elbows soften to follow her mouth.
This is why I ride. This is what being on a horse can do. Together we are more beautiful than we could ever be apart. “Pretty girl.” Her ears flick back, then forward again, as she puts an extra degree of arch into her neck.
Jared creeps along behind us all the way up the long gravel road. He hangs back as we cross the highway, and stays several paces to the rear, driving more slowly than I thought a motorized vehicle could move. I think light and forward, and Salem responds with an eager leap into the canter.
The length and scope of her stride surprise me. She eats the ground; the fence posts blur in my peripheral vision.
A whoop of joy races through me, filling my lungs, lifting my shoulders. I lean forward against her neck and loosen the reins, whisper “Go! It’s OK!” I grip a hunk of her mane and it’s a good thing: she jumps forward into a thrumming hand gallop.
She may be shorter and thicker than my old thoroughbred, but she’s also quicker. Major was sweet to work with, bold and scopey over fences, but you’d never know he started life on a racetrack. This mare has twice his run.
I rub her neck, give a single cluck, and she digs in deeper, gives an extra surge of speed.
When I pull her up, she’s prancing and swishing her tail, and I have tears drying on my cheeks.
Jared coasts to a stop beside us, shaking his head. “Was that really a good idea?”
“Seemed like one to me.” The shine in my eyes must be contagious, because his face softens into a smile.
Jared pulls the truck forward, and I slide off Salem. Unlike riding with a saddle, dismounting from bareback feels like the severing of a bond. It always takes my body a minute to return to the state of just being me, having two legs instead of four.
Salem turns and pokes me with her nose. I rub her muzzle. “Good girl.”
The seams of my shorts are dark with grime. My legs are filthy. This horse needs a scrubbing. “Tomorrow.” I wish I didn’t have to leave right this minute to get back to Betsy’s for dinner. Wish I didn’t have to explain the horse situation to my mom. “Top to bottom tomorrow, OK?”
I lead her to the barn. To where Jared’s just getting out of the parked truck. Stop in front of him. “So, what I’m wondering is, how are your fences?”
When Jared draws his eyebrows together and wrinkles his nose, I add, “Not like Tom’s, I assume. No missing fence poles or loose rails?”
He shakes his head. “No way. Absolutely not. I check them all the time.”
“Then how did she get out?” Before he can answer, I continue. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think she jumped. And, strange as that may sound, I actually think that’s a very good thing.”
Chapter Thirteen
It’s only thanks to Jared acting as my personal chauffeur that I’m able to slip into Betsy’s kitchen at six thirty-seven. Not too bad, considering.
Almost-clean yoga pants, gra
bbed in two minutes while the pick-up truck idled outside, cover my dirt-covered legs, but there’s no time to deal with my helmet hair.
“Just drop me here,” I tell Jared when we reached the B&B’s mailbox. I’m already out, turning to slam the door behind me, when I remember. “Oh, and thanks!”
The screen door creaks when I yank it open. “Hi everyone. It smells great in here, Betsy! Hi, Mom.”
My mom’s nose wrinkles. “You smell like horse.”
She doesn’t mean ‘you smell like horse’; she means ‘what the hell are you doing with that horse?’, but I’m not sure what Betsy’s told her, and I’m not ready to go there just yet. “Mmmm … yes, well, we had to take Salem – that’s the horse you saw on the road – back to the barn.”
“Is everything OK?” Bless you Betsy …
“Yes, fine. Everything’s fine. And I’m starving. Let me help you get everything on the table.”
I avoid looking directly at my mom until we’re all sitting down, and then I see Betsy was right about her being too tired to cook. She has dark smudges under her eyes, and tells us about an accident on the 401, a line-up back to Ontario Street at the ferry dock. Betsy pours her a glass of wine, and Carl puts a steak on her plate, and we all help ourselves to three kinds of salad, and fresh bread.
My mom pauses, food untouched, fingers resting on her fork. “So, Meg, about this horse …”
Betsy speaks up. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Emily, but I’m sure Meg will tell you all about that later. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you, Carl and I were hoping to hear how you’ve been doing.”
My mom hesitates, then nods. “You’re right, Betsy. Meg and I can talk later.” She looks at me and raises her eyebrows, before repeating, “Later.”
I prepare for a tense, polite meal haunted by the prospect of “later”, but my mother surprises me.
She talks between bites about cases she’s working on, and the implications for her company, and the opposition from other companies. She describes the people she meets with in Washington, and New York, and makes them sound funny. The woman who won’t sit down in a meeting until she cleans the table in front of her with a Lysol wipe. The man who brings updated photos of his miniature poodles to each meeting.