She was right, but, I reminded myself, I’d done it to settle her horse and make him more safe for her to ride. I was her trainer and that was my job. I softened my tone. “Colleen, you’re talking in circles. First you want to ride on the trail, then I’m risking him by doing it. And we have a training contract that says I give your horse the schooling that I believe he needs. I don’t have to run every little training exercise past you before I try it.”
“Maybe not, but you do have to schedule the ride and make sure I’m okay with it!”
She might have a point there. The extra rides were on pretty shaky legal ground. “Extra rides that I didn’t charge you for are generally considered a bonus,” I said, defending myself anyway. What else could I do? “Most people just say thank you. Why don’t you sit down and play nice? We’ll have some coffee and sort this whole thing out.”
Colleen sighed and flopped down on the couch. The sagging springs groaned in reproach. “You should consider a new couch,” she said, shifting her weight uncomfortably.
“I don’t have many guests over,” I replied. “By choice,” I added, before she could make a comment about my lack of social skills, and escaped into the little kitchen, leaving her to continue her judging of my shabby little house.
The kitchen would really have set her off, I thought, pulling down the canister of coffee and sliding out the coffeemaker from where it crouched beneath a few hanging mugs. The canister brushed the porcelain rim of the largest mug, a prize from a horse show with a blue jumping horse stenciled on the side, and the mugs tinkled together gently, like a very practical wind-chime. My flip flops stuck to the old brown and white linoleum, perpetually gummy thanks to never-ending humidity and sheer age. The peeling squares could probably be historical landmarks themselves, and the aging refrigerator wasn’t much better. It growled away to itself in the corner by the narrow window, rust making crooked trails through its cheeky yellow face.
“Goldenrod,” I told the fridge. “You’re vintage, not old.” It went on murmuring, making fridge noises that I had been nervously translating as death rattles for some years now. Still, it went on keeping things cold, as it had done for decades. It was possibly the most reliable thing I’d ever encountered in my life. The coffeemaker was less so. I glanced at it nervously. I went through one every couple of years, possibly because the outlet I plugged it into was so old and probably gave it constant power surges. This one had been making a few unnerving sounds lately.
I opened the fridge and pulled out the milk, listening to the coffeemaker hiss away. There was just enough room on the counter for the coffeemaker, the milk, and two mugs; I found some stale Oreos in a cabinet and shook them onto a plate, then set it on top of the little stove, which was probably the same one Marjory Kinnan Rawlings had in her rustic cottage where she wrote Cross Creek. I felt a kinship with the author now: bad-tempered, hermit tendencies, unwilling to let precious Florida countryside feel the developer’s boot, living in a rattle-trap old cottage that had seen better days. All I needed now was to adopt a fawn.
“Because I need more animals,” I muttered, and took the Oreos and the milk out to the living room, where Colleen was glowering at the stack of horse magazines on the tack trunk in front of her. I swept them aside and put the snacks down in their place. “Do you like sugar?”
“Do you have Splenda?” she asked.
Predictable, I thought. “Nope. I drink mine black.”
“I have some in my purse,” she sniffed, and went to rummaging in her Louis Vuitton.
More cookies for me, I thought, and went back into the kitchen to murmur encouraging things to the coffeemaker.
The coffeemaker lived to fight another day, and the caffeinated pool of darkness in my show-jumping prize was all I needed to work through the rest of the negotiations with Colleen. Well, the couple of stale Oreos helped. I preferred them soft and squishy, anyway. I was gross like that.
“So what you’re planning on doing,” Colleen said after a few minutes of contemplative, sipping silence, “is teaching everyone to ride out on the trails after WEF ends?”
“Everyone who wants it,” I amended. “Some people are never going to do it. Trail-riding isn’t for everyone. There’s always an element of danger — horses spook, and they are excited out there and more likely to do something silly. Sometimes just the way they act when they’re having a good time is enough to scare a rider who isn’t used to it, or is a little timid.” I paused. “I think it will be good for the kids, too,” I added, although my stomach churned a little at the thought of white ponies on trails, white ponies running away, white ponies and dangling reins — I swallowed and forced my thoughts back on track. “They’ll be more well-rounded horsemen for it. And they’ll have fun.”
Colleen nodded. “I liked it,” she admitted. “Well — I was scared. But I liked it.”
“So you agree it’s worth keeping.”
She shifted uncomfortably, as if she wanted to agree but something still stood in the way. “I can see its value. But I’m not convinced it’s the best use of the land. I think this is all coming too late. Grace, you have to admit, this farm can’t be here forever.”
“What?” I put down my coffee mug with a sharp clink on the wooden trunk. “Now you’re after the entire property?”
“No, no, it’s not me. But it’s going to happen. Your taxes are going to keep going up. The neighborhood is going to get more and more built up.” Colleen shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong — I’m happy you’re here, and that I don’t have to drive an hour to see my horse. But eventually… you’re the dinosaur here. This won’t last, even if you’re diversifying. Ponies and everything… it’s a nice idea. It’s just not going to win against a new resort.”
“You’re wrong,” I said shortly. “For one thing, every dollar that my taxes go up is a dollar I’m charging new boarders. And the more fancy houses get built around me, the more boarders and students I get. People just like you, who don’t want to drive an extra hour.”
“And the tourists? There are more hotels than houses being built around here.”
“Trail rides,” I answered stoutly, and even as I said it I knew that it was the answer. I’d throw all of my reservations out the window and make it happen. Diversification, with a vengeance! I’d buy Rodney’s nags to do the nose-to-tail thing, and hire a trail guide — or just make Kennedy do it. “Real Florida. Eco-rides. Get out of the theme parks and into the country, just steps from your hotel. The brochures write themselves.”
Colleen sipped her coffee. Buying time, I thought with satisfaction. “That might work,” she allowed after a moment. “If you really think you can do it.”
“Of course I can! It’s the simplest thing in the world. A few more horses, an update on my insurance plan, a few calls to concierge desks around the neighborhood… It’s done.” It really was that simple, I thought. How had I not thought of this before? All of this time laboring over adult amateurs, and now I had little kids who couldn’t be convinced not to ride… add in a little tourist trade and my accountant was going to give me a kiss on the lips. I considered Derrick’s fishy round lips and revised that to a hug. If he tried to kiss me I’d probably punch him before I even realized what I was doing.
Colleen set down her mug. “Of course, the boarders won’t like the trail rides.” The smugness had returned to her tone, and I had the uneasy feeling that I was being threatened.
“Why would the boarders care? We’re talking about a few small groups a week… probably in the middle of the day… no one would even be here but myself and the grooms.”
She shrugged eloquently. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be a boarder at a trail riding barn. It makes us sound like some sort of tourist attraction. And who knows how far it will go? What about when a minivan full of tourists comes in off the highway because they heard you have trail rides? They’ll be running up and down the aisles, feeding the horses candy, spooking horses in the arenas… this place will be like some sort of
cheap amusement park —”
“Well, it would hardly be cheap,” I chuckled, with an attempt at humor that fell completely flat. “Nothing here could ever be that.”
Colleen gave me a look that said nice try, but no.
I sighed. “Colleen, look, I understand your fears but you have to believe that it’s completely unvalidated. There’s no chance I would allow my farm to be anything like a… a tourist trap. We are talking about corporate groups coming on group trail rides. Professionals here for conferences and training. Hardly a rowdy group.
She laughed outright. “Oh Grace, I can tell you’ve never been to a corporate training. You poor, sweet, country girl.” She got up, still chuckling, and picked up her bag. “You’ve misjudged everything very, very seriously. No one is going to stand for this idea, and it’s not going to save the barn. You should get out while you can, Grace. I’m telling you this for your own good… it’s all going down whether you like it or not.
I cocked my head. “I don’t understand why you want me to give in. I’m doing this for all of us — your daughter included.”
She shook her head, the blunt fringes of her immaculate blonde hair brushing her shoulders. It reminded me of a show-jumper’s tail, banged perfectly straight. “I see your point, Grace.” Then she sighed, and her face turned regretful. “I just hope it isn’t too late.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It all sounded very melodramatic… as if she had set something sinister in motion which she had neglected to tell me.
“We’re just dealing with very determined people,” Colleen said, shrugging. “Hannity is used to getting his own way in this county. No one ever thought the Dale family would sell their ranch, either, but The Preserve at Sunset Pointe is selling out, and they haven’t even cleared all the lots yet.”
“Willy Dale was eighty-seven years old,” I reminded her. If she’d ever even known who he was or how old he was. I’d known Willy, of course. Back in the day all of us farmers had known each other, whether we had Angus cattle or Hanoverian horses. “His kids had no interest in ranching. That was a loss, but it had nothing to do with taxes or a developer who doesn’t like to be disappointed. You make it sound like the mob was twisting his arm behind his back or something.”
Colleen just shrugged again. “You’d know better than me, I guess. I’ll tell Tom. I just wanted you to understand… they’re still going to be knocking on your door.”
I nodded and got up to see her out. We appeared to be on friendly terms again… it was the least I could do as a hostess. “I appreciate the head’s up,” I said, and I meant it. “See you for your lesson tomorrow?”
“Yes.” Colleen started out, then paused in the doorway. The hot sun glared on the white porch steps, and picked out the highlights in her perfect hair. “I understand you thought you were doing the right thing for Bailey, too. So, thanks. It obviously helped him.”
“I do it all for you guys,” I blurted, suddenly feeling the springing of a well of affection I had thought was nearly tapped out. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to any of you, not for the world. You guys and your horses are my students. I care about you. That’s why I’m in this business, you know — to make partnerships possible, and help them bloom.”
I remembered this with a start, as if the notion had slipped from my mind over the years. That was my mission, that was why I was a horse trainer. It wasn’t to make money, it was because nothing felt better than being a partner with a horse — and I wanted to share that feeling with as many horses and humans as I possibly could.
It was the mission statement I hadn’t been able to put into words all these years. It was the mission statement I had forgotten about in the grind of making enough money to pay the bills and keeping people happy enough to spend more and more.
I looked at Colleen, waiting for her to agree, waiting for her to catch on and realize that she was part of something big here, but she just shook her head sadly and walked away. As she went down the path, she pulled out her phone and started texting madly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I’d made up my mind for sure this time, and I had the confrontation with Colleen to thank for it. The trail horses arrived on Tuesday afternoon, just as Kennedy was busy getting dumped off Magic in the jumping arena. I glanced out at her from the barn door, waited until she was getting up and dusting the sand from her breeches, and then ran out to meet the trailer in the parking lot.
Rodney’s trailer was an ancient stock trailer that had once been painted barn-red but was now hued a more rusty tone. The six trail horses glared out at me through the steel slats, their eyes rolling and their nostrils flaring at the indignity of being trailered away from their life-long home. They were used to another lifestyle, I thought with a pang of guilt. While Rodney’s personal horses would continue their idyllic pasture existence with occasional trail rides for excitement, these guys would have to get used to living the show barn life. A twelve-by-twelve stall, limited turn-out, and, unfortunately, no grass.
They’ll be fine. Horses were tough, and with proper care, they’d adjust. They were no different from horses all across the country who were having to learn to live with less land.
Rodney slowly swung down from the cab of his ancient Ford, and a blue-eyed Australian shepherd wriggled down after him. I didn’t allow dogs on the property, but Jack was an unwritten exception; the dog was the latest in a succession of shepherds who had been Rodney’s best friends and constant shadows over the years. My grandfather would have rolled over in his grave if I’d told Rodney he couldn’t let his dog out of the truck. “Sit, Jack,” he muttered absently, and the dog plopped down on furry haunches and gazed up at him adoringly. “Brought your horses,” he said unnecessarily, hooking a thumb towards the trailer.
“Thank you! I have their stalls all ready. Are you going to keep their halters or anything? I have spares.”
Rodney shook his head slowly. “No… no… I won’t have no need for ‘em,” he sighed. “Got more old tack and halters than I know what to do with, if you need any.”
I could always use tack, but it wouldn’t be the ratty old nylon and Indian leather that Rodney used in his barn. That stuff would be about as out of place in my barn as… well… I blinked at the scruffy horses poking their noses through the rusty trailer slats… as these horses were going to be. “That’s all right,” I said. “Just the Western saddles will be fine, like we talked about.”
A horse kicked the trailer wall and whinnied, and that set them all off. We got busy, Anna and Margaret and Tom and myself, hauling the upset horses off the trailer and dragging them into the barn (or being dragged into the barn), and in about ten minutes the future of Seabreeze Equestrian Center had been installed into the barn and was trampling frantically through the bedding, neighing incessantly and sending reverberations through the entire herd.
“They’ll settle right down in a little bit,” Rodney assured me, shouting above the din. “You know how horses is.”
“I know.” Sometimes I thought Rodney still saw me as ten-years-old and chasing my pony after my grandfather’s big mare. “We’ll be fine.”
He looked at the horses as they circled their stalls, and ran a finger along the steel bars of the nearest one. Inside, a roan quarter horse crossed with God knew what — maybe a Belgian, with those feathery fetlocks — was carrying on like the end of the world was nigh, whinnying and pacing and throwing occasional kicks at the wall. Rodney’s lined face was uncertain. “Maybe they ought to be outside like they’re used to.”
“They can go out in a little bit,” I assured him. “Just as soon as the afternoon set comes in. And they can stay out all night.”
He nodded. “They’ll like that.” He looked back at the roan horse, who paused for a moment and shoved his narrow nose through the bars. Rodney stroked the whiskered nose. “Alright Rainbow,” he told the horse. “Miss Grace will take fine care of you… just like her grandpa’d have done.”
One by one he stopp
ed in front of the stalls and placed a hand on his horses’ noses. Watching the stooped old horseman, in his ragged jeans and dirty old hat, with his dog at his heels, say goodbye to his horses was almost more than I could take. I bit my lip and put my fist at my chin, forcing myself to hold it together. I couldn’t deny the prickling in my eyes and the lump in my throat, though. I was watching the end of an era. The last cowboy was leaving town. I was the only one left.
And I was on thin ice.
Unfortunately, I was the only one who saw the arrival of the trail horses in such a light.
The boarders were a little horrified by their shaggy coats, uneven manes, and uncertain lineage. Even sweet little Gayle was taken aback. “But, what are they?” she asked, standing in front of the roan’s stall. Rainbow, the roan gelding who had stumped me with his breeding, blew his nostrils hard at her and went back to his constant circling of the stall. The horses’ displeasure with their new surroundings had not dissipated during the three hours they had been incarcerated in box stalls.
I shrugged, trying to ignore the fact that I was the one who had instilled such a sense of breed prejudice in my students. “They’re just nice trail horses,” I said lamely. “Rainbow here, he’s probably quarter horse and draft, so he’ll be really quiet and easy-going and —”
Rainbow the quiet and easy-going trail horse kicked his stall wall and squealed.
Gayle took a step back. “Are you sure they aren’t kind of… wild? Like, he might be a mustang. I heard mustangs can stay wild deep down. He might run off with someone.”
“I think we know that any horse can run away with anyone for the right reasons,” I reminded her. “Which is precisely why we need trail horses who are nice and calm out in the woods… even if they’re not big fans of living indoors like our show horses. They want opposite things. These guys are used to living in a pasture.”
Show Barn Blues Page 22