by Lisa Wysocky
“Go,” I said to Keith and Melody as soon as the horses’ legs had been wrapped for trailering. “You have a party to get ready for.”
The “wrap party” was a traditional festive event held after the close of any major music industry project. This one was being held at a therapeutic riding center in Kingston Springs, the southwestern-most town in Cheatham County. Melody was a member of the church that sponsored the riding center, The Holy Church of the Mighty Happy.
Melody had tried several times to get me to go services with her on Sunday mornings when she was in town, but either I was at a horse show, or just didn’t feel the need to go. Catholic by birth, even though I did not attend mass regularly (okay, hardly ever) I was uncomfortable in the Southern Methodist church my boyfriend Brent went to, and assumed the same would apply with this congregation.
“Cat? You want a little touch up before we go to the wrap party?” Bill asked, a cordless hair straightener in his hand. “A little smoothing? Your curls are really . . . curly.”
Bill was being tactful. My long hair looked like a dull brown rat’s nest. A day of humid November breezes had turned my careful ponytail of this morning into a frizzy mess. Despite Bill’s stellar reputation, I made a habit of avoiding hair salons. No one had ever made my hair look good, so I stopped wasting my money. Melody had been working on me, though. Maybe someday soon I would pay a visit to Bill’s salon.
“Ah, not right now, Bill,” I said. “But thanks. I have to get the horses home before I can head to the party. I’ll see you there, though.”
I loaded Bob, the heavier of the two horses, first. The only trailer I had was a six-horse diagonal haul, and I’d made a spot for him just in front of the first trailer axle. I asked Sally to go in next, but she resisted. That was odd behavior for her, but Sally sometimes acted very oddly. Instead of joining Bob, she craned her neck to the left, and whinnied at Keith, Melody, Davis, and Chas, who were talking about a hundred feet away.
“Bye, Sally,” Melody called, waving at her favorite horse. “See you soon.”
Sally looked at the group a moment longer, sighed, and stepped into the trailer.
After a quick wave of my own, I got into the cab of my truck and headed for River Road.
Cat’s Horse Tip #1
“Horses see light and dark more intensely than humans, and may not want to get into a trailer because the interior is too bright or dark for the horse to see well.”
2
MY FARM WAS LOCATED ON the south bank of the Cumberland River. It was twenty rolling acres of what used to be part of the massive Fairbanks Plantation, which was owned during the Civil War by a scoundrel named Col. Samuel Henley. I had learned a lot about Col. Sam earlier this year when my neighbor, a recent owner of the ancestral Henley home, got herself murdered.
I purchased my farm eight years ago, just after I graduated from Middle Tennessee State University with a degree in equine science. My beloved grandmother, who had raised me from the time I was nine, passed suddenly and I found more than eighty thousand dollars in cash stuffed under her mattress. I used every cent to buy my old farmhouse and accompanying old tobacco barn, and hung out my horse training shingle. I had been fortunate since then, racking up national wins on the Appaloosa horse show circuit just about every year, and I couldn’t have done it without Jon Gardner.
Jon showed up on my doorstep roughly four years ago and moved into the apartment I had just renovated in the barn loft. He was an enigma, although I had learned something about his family a few months ago. Not much else about his past had come forth since then, but I gave thanks every day that he was on my team.
I had hoped to convince Jon to come to the wrap party with me, but as soon as we got Sally settled in her stall she sank her head deep into her water bucket and began to blow bubbles. Agnes was positive that Sally only did that if something big was about to happen (or had already happened). And indeed, in some people’s minds, a case could be made that Sally might possibly be psychic. In this instance, maybe Sally understood that millions of people would soon see her on Country Music Television and other music video channels. That didn’t explain the tie in to the water and bubbles, though.
Jon was more concerned with Sally’s behavior than I was and decided to stay home to watch her. I also suspected that he just didn’t want to go. Jon was a quiet watcher, an observer of people and animals, which is one reason he was so good with horses. Interacting with people, however, was another story. Jon was not a gregarious sort, and I had the feeling that a party filled with people he did not know was the last place he wanted to be.
Many in Nashville would jump at an invitation to a music industry wrap party, but after a phone call, I realized that in addition to Jon, my boyfriend Brent was not one of them. Brent was a small animal veterinarian in nearby Clarksville, Tennessee and was quite certain that he’d much rather balance his checkbook than go to the event.
Darcy, however, was another story. Darcy was a senior in high school, a student and friend who now lived with me. Her dad, Mason Whitcomb, was a Nashville magazine and Internet media publishing mogul who lived in the ritzy Green Hills area of Nashville. He often was too busy for his only child. Darcy’s mother I have already mentioned. Both parents loved her dearly, but Darcy decided last summer that I was the one to give her the attention she needed. I actually didn’t mind.
“Seriously?” she said, snapping a wad of pink bubblegum. “The wrap party is at a therapeutic riding center? Like maybe I can do my forty hours for my senior project there.”
I tried not to get too involved in Darcy’s school. Her dad tolerated the fact that she lived with me but that was about it. He also had two horses in my barn: Gigi, this year’s national champion yearling filly, and Darcy’s tall, dark Appaloosa gelding, Peter’s Pride, who we all affectionately called Petey, so I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. But, I did know that Darcy was supposed to have cleared her service project with her advisor last week.
In fact, the poor woman was so frustrated with Darcy that she had begun to make suggestions for volunteer hours. Darcy had deemed every suggestion “inappropriate.” The woman’s ideas had recently descended to such brainstorms as implementing an anti-litter campaign, building a bridge over a small stream at a local park, and horror of all horrors, singing songs to preschoolers.
None of those ideas even remotely fit Darcy. My favorite teen could often be superficial, but she was passionate about fairness and was a strong defender of justice. I could easily see her going into law or politics, or possibly even social work, although I didn’t think her dad would support that effort. Not enough money or prestige. No, Darcy needed a service project that meant something, that would make a difference. Maybe volunteering at a therapeutic riding center would be it.
So, with a change into a clean pair of Wranglers and my least mud-stained Cat Enright Stables jacket, I gave a few quick swipes of my hairbrush and put on some lip gloss. Then Darcy and I headed out of my driveway, and took a series of rights and lefts on River Road, Sam’s Creek Road, Hwy. 70, and Kingston Springs Road. We finally wound through the tiny town of Kingston Springs, and landed in front of the Mighty Happy Therapeutic Riding Center.
The parking lot was packed, so we followed the car ahead of us and pulled onto the grass to the left of the barn. Inside, two women dressed in dark gold sweatshirts with the logo of the riding center in black greeted us.
“We are mighty happy to see you,” the older one said as the younger one handed us brochures about the center. “The party is in the covered arena. Just head down the aisle and take a right about half way down.”
I loved snooping in other people’s barns. Here, the floor was a gorgeous red brick. The first three twelve-foot sections of stalls on both sides of the wide aisle were fully enclosed with doors labeled FEED and TACK on the left, and VIEWING AREA and OFFICE on the right. We walked past those to find two rows of open concept stalls, five on each side. These open concept stalls had dividers between the stal
ls that were wood on the bottom four feet or so, then heavy mesh from there on up. The stall fronts were mesh all the way to the floor, including the stall doors. I thought the design was brilliant, as it fostered a herd environment and allowed the horses to see each other. Humans are predators, and horses are prey animals who feel safer in a herd. Each stall was also thickly bedded with fragrant wood chips and came furnished with a shiny silver automatic waterer.
We still had fully enclosed wooden stalls and a dirt floor at Cat Enright Stables, and I wished I could import the brick floor and open stalls to my place on River Road.
Three horses currently inhabited the stalls. The first was an inquisitive chestnut Haflinger pony with a white blaze and a thick, fluffy, flaxen mane and tail. The card on the front of the stall said he was a ten-year-old gelding and that his name was Noodle. The second horse, a narrow, dark brown Saddle-bred/Quarter Horse cross of about fifteen hands, was eighteen years old and called Cinnamon. The final horse, Tinkerbelle, was a massive, gray Percheron/Thoroughbred cross.
Past the horse stalls, I saw room for hay and equipment storage, and to the right was an entrance to the covered arena, which was alight with festivities. In the arena, I took a moment to get my bearings. There, to our left and across the arena, tiny, blond Melody and tall, gorgeous Keith were besieged by hoards of reporters and flashing cameras. As always, my heart gave a little lurch when I saw Keith. My platonic crush was in full force, but it looked as if the country music media had a crush on him as well. Keith was currently talking to Chuck Dauphin, a respected reporter and disc jockey, but was surrounded by many other hopeful members of the media.
Next to one of a dozen or so tall gas heaters that were spaced around the arena, Carole was talking to a slim man of medium height whose back faced us. She waved to beckon us over. Before we got there, though, the man turned and smiled. That was strange, because although I knew the man well, I can’t ever recall seeing him smile. Robert Griggs was a former riding student, and earlier this year was in a class with Carole, Darcy, and Glenda Dupree, my movie star neighbor who had been killed.
“Robert! What are you doing here?” I asked.
Carole answered on his behalf. “Can you believe it? Robert works here, at the therapeutic riding center,” she said. “He’s the volunteer coordinator, farm manager, and chief poop scooper.”
The last I heard, Robert was volunteering at a center in Franklin, about twenty miles from here.
“Part time,” said Robert, still smiling. Robert was the kind of person who was wound up tight inside––or he used to be. I had never seen him so relaxed or friendly. “I’m still nursing at Vanderbilt three days a week, and then I’m mighty happy to be here the other three days. Sundays I’m over at the church.”
I’d almost forgotten that this therapeutic riding center was “faith based.”
“I’d love to catch up Cat,” he said, “but I have to get horses ready for the presentation we’re giving in a few minutes. Maybe you can come back another time, say on Friday? I think Fridays and weekends are open for you now that the show season is over?”
Robert was right. Jon, Darcy, and I had just returned from the world championships, and it was the first national event in a number of years where we had not competed. My team had done exceptionally well last summer at the national show, and also at a special all-breed invitational show in August. We needed a rest. So, we had gone with the goal of generating new business, and had picked up one major new horse and a few strong possibilities for the coming show season. Mission accomplished.
“I’d love to come on Friday,” I said. “Actually, Darcy wanted to talk with someone about volunteering here. She needs hours for her senior service project.” I glanced around, but Darcy had disappeared into the crowd. “She’s here somewhere.”
Just then I spotted her on the other side of the covered arena talking to Bill, who was examining her long strands of wavy, honey blond hair.
“Darcy’s last period is a study hall,” I said. “If it’s related to her service project, I’m sure her advisor would be happy to let her skip it. Would three o’clock work?”
Robert grinned and stuck out his thin hand. “See you then,” he said.
Wow, I never thought quiet, morose Robert even knew what a grin was, and here he was, giving a really good impression of one. I walked away grinning myself.
I headed toward the long tables of food hoping for hot chocolate, and maybe a chocolate éclair, but before I got there Melody dashed my way with an entire group of people in tow. I willed my stomach to stop rumbling.
“Cat, you’ve heard me talk about my friends from church,” Melody said, “and here they are.”
In a rush of names and introductions I eventually sorted out Ruthie Cosgrove, a short woman in her forties with a tiny waist and an unfortunate set of thighs. Despite her lank brown hair and frowsy appearance, Ruthie was the founder and pastor of the church and I could see why she had been so successful with it. There was something electric about her. Stage presence, Melody would have called it.
“How are you,” I nodded politely at her.
“Mighty happy, Cat. Mighty happy. So glad to finally meet you.”
I had a suspicion that all the talk about being mighty happy was going to get to me sooner or later. Oh, guess what? It already had.
Also in the group with their own confirmations of being mighty happy were Allen and Emily Harding, and their daughter Rowan. Allen, I gathered, was Pastor Ruthie’s brother and the church’s financial person. He was a proud, pompous fellow about six feet in height, barrel-chested with a full head of salt and pepper hair.
Emily, his wife, was the program director and lead instructor at the therapeutic riding center. Emily was a stunning biracial woman who looked thirty, but was probably a decade older. With Allen and Emily was their nine-year-old daughter, Rowan, a cute Asian girl in pigtails and glasses.
“We’re big on adoption in this family,” said Allen with the air of someone whose words were of great importance. I really hadn’t meant to stare at the colorful family. I was just trying to sort everyone out. “Emily,” he continued, “is of Mexican, Navajo, and African American descent and was adopted when she was three. Rowan is Chinese, and we adopted her when she was fourteen months. Ruthie and I grew up with our biological parents, and our ancestors all came from England, Ireland and Scotland––far as we can tell.”
“I’m Irish myself,” I said, trying to process what my brain clearly told me was too much information.
A volunteer arrived and whispered something into Emily’s ear. “I must go,” she said. “Our riders are ready to get on their horses. It was nice to meet you, Cat.”
I nodded and looked toward the craft services table. Davis was there, mug in hand, next to a tall, silver container and a table sign that read in large bold letters HOT CHOCOLATE. Dang, by the time I got over there he would have drunk it all. I hurried to the carafe, grabbed a mug, and sure enough, the drops of luscious hot chocolate that dribbled out were only enough to fill a quarter of my cup. Sighing, I nodded at Davis, who was now talking to Augie, the booking agent.
I saw Darcy head to the food line and snuck in behind her. As we filled our plates the PA system came to life and I looked to the end of the arena. Ruthie stood on a small platform and as she began to speak, clips from Keith and Melody’s video shoot began to play on two large screens near her. In addition to today’s footage, there was some intense concert footage of Keith and Melody that I knew had been shot last week, as well as footage of people with disabilities riding and interacting with horses that I realized had been shot here, at the riding center.
“Thank you all for coming,” Ruthie said. “We are so blessed to have Melody Cross as a trusted volunteer here at the Mighty Happy Therapeutic Riding Center and we are ‘mighty happy’ to host this wrap party for her and for Keith Carson.”
Ruthie had the delivery of a person who warms up audiences for game shows, and soon had the crowd cheering and ap
plauding.
“Our riding center, of course, is affiliated with The Holy Church of the Mighty Happy, which most of you passed just before arriving here,” Ruthie continued. “I invite each of you to worship with us Wednesday and Saturday evenings, and Sunday mornings. If you’d like more information on our church or the center, our volunteers are all wearing gold sweatshirts tonight, so feel free to get to know them.
“And now we have a little treat. Many of you do not know what we do here, so we thought we’d take a few minutes to show you. Here are three of our riders, along with our lead instructor, the fabulous Emily Harding.”
During Ruthie’s speech, volunteers cleared people from the end of the arena, ushering them away from Ruthie and toward the tables of food. Now, a dozen or so volunteers held a long golden rope as a barricade between the people and the riders who had just entered the arena.
I have to admit the riders were impressive. An army veteran in combat attire rode Tinkerbelle, the Percheron/ Throughbred cross, without the assistance of any volunteers. This, even though he was missing both of his legs below the knees. A young woman who, Ruthie explained in her continuing spiel, had cerebral palsy, rode Cinnamon with the help of three volunteers: a leader to lead the horse, and two sidewalkers, one on each side of the rider, with their arms draped across the rider’s thighs. Apparently, before she started to ride, the young lady could not sit up on her own.
The last rider was a small boy with Down syndrome. He rode the Haflinger, Noodle, and only needed a leader. He made us all laugh with his infectious smile. He certainly was having a good time. The riders wove their way through a series of orange cones that were set in a line down one side of the arena, then stopped their horses at a mailbox, took out a letter and rode with it to a drop box on the other side of the arena. Then they did trunk strengthening exercises, followed by learning to turn by riding in a circle.