Wayne looked at the horse and let out a long whistle. The horse was spectacular.
“This, my friends, is Idle Dice,” Dutch said.
I walked closer. “The Idle Dice?” I asked.
“The Idle Dice.”
“Why is he here?”
“Martha Wakefield bought a controlling stake before he was injured.”
He was syndicated—owned by a group. Most syndicated horses are stallions. If he was syndicated as a gelding, that was because he was a top-level performance horse. A big earner.
Idle Dice turned and looked right through them. Then he looked me in the eye, and I felt a chill.
“Let him stretch his legs. He’s been on that rig since Atlanta,” said Dutch.
Wayne led Idle Dice to the indoor ring, and the horse sniffed the ground loudly. Other horses called to him, and Idle Dice called back from deep in his chest.
“He sprained his back, so we’re going to rehab him,” Dutch said.
Wayne removed his leg wraps and shipping blanket, unhooked him, and let him go. The horse trotted away from them, shaking his head, happy to be loose.
“He’s something, ain’t he?” said Wayne.
“I’d like to see him with someone on him, see how bad his back is,” said Dutch. “I’ll get Kelly on him in the morning.”
“It don’t look so bad to me,” said Wayne.
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Dutch. “I could just get on, but I want to see him from the ground.”
“Put Sid on,” said Wayne.
Dutch laughed, but I knew Wayne was serious. I could tell by his voice.
“I’m telling you, put her on.”
I glanced at Dutch but his expression hadn’t changed. Maybe he was ignoring us.
I cleared my throat, which felt like a vice. “My saddle’s in the car,” I said.
“We’ll wait until tomorrow and have Kelly ride him,” said Dutch. “He just got off the trailer.”
The horse walked by and snorted at us. With little effort, his strides ate up the ground underneath him. His neck was so long that he reminded me of a dinosaur. The bones in his face were fine and chiseled, but his nose was square, almost Roman, and his eyes were big and dark.
“She’s been riding since she was two years old,” growled Wayne, “and by God, I’d put her on anything.”
Dutch, irritated, turned to look at Wayne. All three of us wanted to see this horse under saddle tonight. What if there was nothing wrong with him? What if the vet was wrong? It happened all the time. But there was no good reason to put just anyone on Idle Dice immediately. It was unsafe, bad training, and bad horsemanship.
Dutch looked Wayne in the eye.
“You promise she can really ride?” he asked.
Wayne thumped the fence impatiently with his hand.
“Fine—put her on. But don’t tell anybody I did this.”
“Do I have to wear a helmet?” I asked.
“Just get on the horse,” Wayne said through his teeth.
We tacked him up. As Dutch gave me a leg up, the horse hopped excitedly. I hung on as Wayne tried to hold him by the reins, but the horse took off across the ring. I got control and let him canter and toss his head. The horse was so responsive that I simply closed my fingers around the reins and he turned. He dropped his head, tugged lightly on my hands, and let me know he was happy to get to work. I felt like I’d stepped out of a go-cart and into a fighter jet.
“He’s got a little hitch in the back. I think it’s in his right hip,” I said.
I saw Dutch nod.
“It gets better as he goes. Maybe he just needs some exercise,” I said as I circled close to them.
Wayne leaned up against the fence, chewing on a piece of straw, with a twinkle in his eye and a creeping smile.
Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice.
“Interesting decision, Dutch, putting a stable hand on his back when he’s just gotten off the trailer. That horse was worth more than two million dollars before he injured himself.”
It was Martha, in her Barbour coat and tennis shoes.
“I thought . . .” stammered Dutch.
“You thought I wasn’t coming tonight,” she said.
She studied me carefully.
“I will say, she is a nice rider,” she said, as if I weren’t there.
“Yes, she is,” said Dutch. I wondered if he was just being agreeable, but it sure was nice to hear, either way.
“That’s something you don’t see so much anymore. She’s giving that horse room to do what he wants. I wish Kelly would ride more like that, rather than being such a showoff.”
They all watched me without speaking. I loved it.
“I think he has a tight right hip, not a sprained back,” Martha said. “We’ll start working him tomorrow and take him to the show next Saturday.”
“Next weekend?” asked Dutch.
“This horse loves to show. It’ll make him happy,” Martha said.
“Kelly is already riding two horses that day.”
“Then this girl,” said Martha.
“Sid?” asked Dutch.
“They’re a good match. Why not?”
I brought the horse over to the rail.
“What do you think?” Martha asked me sternly.
“I think he’s pretty cool,” I said. “He’s got so much power, but he’s also just . . . really sweet.”
I gave the horse a hard pat on the neck.
“He likes you,” Martha said.
“You’re riding him at the show next weekend,” said Dutch, his mouth barely moving.
I studied their faces and saw that it was true. I felt like I was dreaming. I had always wanted to ride a horse like this, and I had started to think it was never going to happen.
Wayne leaned back farther on the fence, holding the piece of hay in his teeth, and looked up at me.
“Better shine your boots,” he said.
FIFTEEN
MARTHA TOLD ME I had to take a lesson with Dutch, and he scheduled it for Monday afternoon. I was kind of nervous. I put on a nice polo shirt that actually fit and tucked it into my jeans with a leather belt. I found a suede brush in the trunk of my car, hidden in the candy wrappers and old assignment sheets that had never made it into the house, and I brushed my gray chaps until they were smooth. I found Idle Dice’s bridle in the tack room, rich brown Hermès leather with raised white stitching and a shiny double-reined pelham bit. I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail, tucked it into my helmet, and took my saddle and the bridle to Idle Dice’s stall. When I walked around behind him to attach the girth, he stepped aside like a gentleman, then stepped back once I was done. What a professional.
I wondered where he had learned his manners, and I realized it was from his grooms. They had to be the ones who’d taken the time and effort to teach him. Ladies like Martha Wakefield would have fed him treats until he was so spoiled and rude that you couldn’t get near him.
When I got home Saturday night, I was so excited that I burst through the door looking for my mother. Usually I would know better. Usually my mother would roll her eyes, or shake her head, or interrupt me, but I knew this time would be different. Melinda knew horses, and she wanted me to do well and make money, didn’t she? I had finally gotten a foothold, and Melinda would think of how badly Jimmy would have wanted it. She would help make this happen mainly because she was my mother and she loved me.
“Who’s paying the entry fees?” she’d asked.
“She is. Mrs. Wakefield.”
“You ain’t a charity case.”
“I know that. I’m doing her a favor.”
“She thinks you’re a poor kid who needs a handout.”
Melinda’s eyes were dark and scary. She looked so angry that I took a step backwards. I felt my chest tighten. It was horrible, to go from feeling so good to feeling so pathetic in a couple of seconds.
“The horse world is a club for rich people, and the sooner you realize that you�
�re not invited, the better.”
I went to my room and closed the door. The pain started to subside, just a little, when I realized that, as usual, I didn’t need her help.
I walked Idle Dice out to the mounting block. His shoes clinked slowly against the asphalt, so much time between strides because he was such a long, lanky horse. A couple of the grooms stopped and looked, and one of them took the reins for me and held him by the block while I mounted up. Idle Dice was one of those horses who could not and would not stand still while the rider got on—polite as he was, he was impatient and wanted to get to work.
“I do not give lessons to riders in chaps,” a voice boomed, shattering my happy moment and sending me into a panic before I had even gotten into the ring. I turned to see Dutch walking out to us with his clipboard, cell phone, and coffee, his fat Welsh corgi trailing behind and looking right and left to steer clear of oncoming hooves.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“We wear boots and breeches because that’s what we show in. This is not a warm-up or a hack. It’s a for-mal les-son.”
I felt small and scared, and my arms, which were usually strong, were mushy like noodles. I wondered whether he was trying to scare me. “I don’t have show boots—”
“Find some today, and some buff breeches. Not cream, or gray, or navy, or rust. Buff. Seventy-three percent cotton. You can buy them online at Dover. I need to see what you will look like in the ring!” he shouted.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He was adjusting one of the fences, pulling out the metal pin and sliding the jumps to make them higher. I had a lump in my throat.
“I don’t know where you got that hat, but you need a USEF regulation helmet.”
A USEF regulation helmet cost hundreds of dollars.
Dutch looked toward the barn, where Kelly was coming out on another horse.
“Sid—posting trot. Kelly, collect that horse. Wake him up before you get in here.” He grabbed a crop and threw it to Kelly, who caught it and gave the horse a smack behind the saddle.
I gave Idle Dice some leg, and he launched into a powerful, springy trot. I sat up and adjusted the reins as he curled his chin toward his chest and played with the bit.
“Don’t let him get behind the bit,” Dutch barked. “He’s a smart horse—he thinks he can do it by himself. Don’t put him on cruise control.”
The whole lesson was like this. Dutch set up little cavaletti jumps for me, so small that Idle Dice cantered right over them like he was insulted. Dutch yelled at me about my weight not being in my heels, my back being round, my wrists being floppy. He made me trot at him head-on and said my right toe was sticking out too far. The list went on and on. Could we at least jump a real jump? It wasn’t going to happen. He made me trot around without stirrups for so long that I got sick to my stomach from the pain.
Then, when my legs were shaking, I was soaked with sweat, and I could feel the skin on my shins rubbed raw and oozing, Dutch started setting up a course. A real course. Airy verticals and huge oxers, at least three feet three inches high. He set up the deepest jump in the deepest part of the sand, where it would be hard for us to get up and over it. These fences had bright, glaring colors, rainbows and stripes among the fake stones and brick. I didn’t know too many horses who would walk by them without balking, let alone jump over them. My palms started sweating.
“Sid, pick up a canter. Red coop.” He pointed at the red-painted wooden box with front and back sides slanting toward a pole at the top, like the roof on a chicken coop. His voice was loud, monotonous, detached. It was scary.
Idle Dice, hearing the sound of Dutch’s voice, started to jog in place. He chewed on the bit and walked sideways like he was performing in the dressage ring. He knew the sound of a coach preparing a rider for a course.
I simply opened my fingers a quarter of an inch and the horse launched into a big canter.
“Easy. You have a lot of stride,” said Dutch.
I had never heard these terms before. Wayne would just say, “Whoa.”
I brought Idle Dice deep into the corner and looked up at the coop, locked on to it like I’d seen the Olympic riders do, and let my body turn to catch up with my head. I focused on the jump like a laser.
“Soften,” said Dutch, meaning I looked a little tense. The horse would start to feel my resistance and harden up, go faster, and not respond as well.
“Don’t lean into the turn. You’re not riding a motorcycle. Now oxer, vertical, vertical, stone wall.”
I looked at the other fences. No time to size them up or let Idle Dice see them.
We cantered up to the first fence, and I could feel the horse adjust his stride and hold his breath when he left the ground. When he landed, he exhaled and continued. Same thing for the oxer, then the verticals. He knew to steady himself for the oxers, which were deeper, so he wouldn’t pull a rail. He knew he could use more speed for the verticals, which were only about a foot deep. The horse seemed to know that I was making the decisions, and he responded with respect to everything I wanted. I loved this horse.
“Great,” said Dutch. I felt relieved to hear a nice word. “But your equitation needs work, kid. Shorten your stirrups a couple of holes and get your heels up under your hips. I want to see a proper crest release. Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
I had been using an automatic release all my life, like the old-time classic hunter riders—I let the horse’s mouth pull my hands as he jumped, following the motion with my hands, keeping contact. I’d always thought it was better, but I knew it was harder.
“Sometimes harder isn’t better,” said Dutch, reading my mind. “The advantage to a crest release is that you maintain better contact and you don’t have to regain it as you’re landing. An automatic release can encourage the horse to be too forward, and then you have to take a couple of seconds to collect him. In a big equitation class, you don’t have a few seconds. You have to land preparing for the next fence.”
He put his hands on my foot and took it out of the stirrup, showing me where my toes needed to be. He grabbed my calf and I winced from the saddle sores. Seeing my reaction, he unzipped my chaps up to my knee, saw the raw spot on my leg, and made a face.
“Put some Desitin on that and wear tall boots next time. You’re not riding in your backyard anymore.”
We did the course five more times. Dutch told me that I was on a horse with an enormous stride, so to fit five strides in between two of the fences might be too hard—maybe we should just do it in four. We tried both ways. One time, I thought too hard and stiffened up, and the horse chipped in—crammed half a stride in before the jump—and it was ugly. It looked like he’d shuffled or even stumbled. If a horse like this chipped in, it was entirely the rider’s fault. Dutch explained that I was counting when I should have been using my eye, but I didn’t understand. I’d always used my eye, but the more I thought about the strides, the worse it got. I remembered Kelly having this problem, too. Finally, Dutch told me to let the horse find his takeoff spot before the jump, and he did.
Afterward, I saw Kelly in the barn when we were both washing off our horses. I thought about walking around to the other door and avoiding her, but I walked past her instead. She looked me up and down, as usual, while she let her horse drink out of the hose.
SIXTEEN
ANYBODY CAN BE clean and neat and dress well regardless of his financial position,” George Morris wrote in Hunter Seat Equitation. I read this for the hundredth time in Wayne’s truck on the way to the tack shop in Charlottesville. It might have been true, but I didn’t see how I could look like other girls at the show. Those clothes were expensive. If you wore a hand-me-down, you looked like a fool. I took a deep breath and kept reading.
Jackets, both for summer and winter, should be attractive yet conventional and, most important of all, fit well; there is nothing more detrimental to a rider’s posture than a loose, baggy coat. . . . Breeches should be of any tan, gray, or canary material.
Every pair of breeches cost at least a hundred dollars, and they had to fit. I’d have to buy an old pair and have them taken in, but wouldn’t this be obvious? Would they be clean? It would be so easy if I just had the money.
As far as boots are concerned, make sure that they are tall enough to give the rider as much length of leg as possible and fit snugly in the calves. I prefer any black or darkish tan boot (a field boot is nice), preferably without tops.
There were gorgeous used field boots—tall black leather boots with laces on the front of the ankle—at tack shops everywhere. But they would stand out. All the riders wore new boots. Did I want the judges to notice me because of my riding or because I was wearing a pair of thirty-year-old Vogel boots? I could read between the lines—George Morris seemed to be telling me to find some boots that would get the job done, that I didn’t need to wear exactly what everyone else was wearing. He even said “preferably without tops”—the tops were only for the hunt field—but he would allow it if you needed to do it. He would allow the girl who spent her Sunday mornings in the hunt field to wear the same pair of boots to the show. What a sacrifice . . .
All in all, a rider entering a show ring should appear elegant in an understated, conventional way. No part of his riding attire should draw attention to itself and under no circumstances should there be any flashiness. Imagination can enter in subtly tailoring clothing to the rider’s build and in coordinating colors with the horse.
In other words, don’t stand out. Back to the nine-hundred-dollar boots, so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself.
Wayne waited in the truck while I went inside. I had the seventy-five dollars I’d earned grooming for Kelly and my first paycheck, which wasn’t much. I’d decided Donald could pay the electric bill himself if he wanted the lights on.
I found the kind of helmet Kelly had been wearing and the boots the girls had at the show.
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