“The horses are supposed to help me calm down,” Cade went on. “‘A healthy outlet’ for my anger, or something.”
“Is riding . . . helping?”
“No idea. But it’s fun!” Cade shrugged. “So what are you doing instead of riding?”
“Polishing saddles.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Izzy was right.”
Her name was like a paper cut. “What was Izzy right about?” Hanna asked too quickly.
“That you’re getting special treatment ’cause you’re scared of horses.” Cade tapped his chin. “Why are you here, then? I mean, it’s a horse camp.”
That familiar wave of hopelessness washed over her. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
“Maybe you could, like, get over your fear?” Cade said helpfully.
If only it could be that easy—as easy as walking into a cloud of bees.
Chapter Six
Cade’s question haunted Hanna over the next few days. Maybe you could, like, get over your fear?
Why couldn’t she just “get over it”? What was holding her back? But even watching the other kids doing their riding lessons made her fear for them, as if the horses would suddenly stampede and they’d all get thrown off and trampled.
Over the weekend, the ranch schedule shifted, giving them more free time. But that meant more opportunities for Izzy to get on Hanna’s case.
“Not coming on the trail ride today, Hanna?” Izzy asked as the other kids put on their helmets, their horses saddled and ready to go. They waited in front of the ranch house for Mr. Bridle to get his map and Fletch to check the riders’ cinches for safety. At the front of the line, Madison rode her Appaloosa, Snow White, a mostly white horse with a mess of big, black spots on her rear.
“No,” said Hanna. “I . . . I’m doing something else.”
“Whatever,” Izzy said, flipping some of her hair out of her face. “I’m sure going on a trail ride will be way more fun than anything you’re doing here.”
Behind her, Fletch’s voice answered. “Actually, Hanna and I are working on a project together.”
Great, thought Hanna. Now Izzy would really have some “special treatment” to hassle her about.
“Izzy,” said Fletch, cocking his head, “your saddle’s cinch is way too loose. Need me to show you how to tighten it properly again?”
“No!” Izzy led Fettucini a few steps away and checked the cinch herself. “I can do it.”
Fletch raised his hands in mock surrender and went over to Hanna. “Hey. Are you ready?”
Hanna nodded. When Mr. Bridle arrived riding a muscular black beauty, Madison let out a little whoop. “Mount up, everyone!” she said. “It’s time to go!”
Together, Hanna and Fletch stood out of the way as the trail riders got on their horses and strode off down the road.
Fletch closed his eyes and exhaled. “A few hours of peace. Whew.”
Peace? Kind, quiet Fletch found her peaceful? She liked that.
“So what are we doing?” Hanna asked.
“You’ll see. For now, go into the barn and grab two buckets. Fill one with water and the other with grain. Then go wait over in the small corral, next to the barn.”
Hanna’s heart skipped a beat. Those sounded like supplies for a horse.
“You want me to get what?” she asked in a small voice.
“It’s all right, Hanna. I’m not going to ask you to do anything you can’t do. Just meet me at the corral with those two things.”
With that, Fletch tipped his hat and left.
Hanna did as she was told. Carrying the two buckets, she went to the corral and set them down. Then she waited.
Soon, on the other side of the pasture fence, Fletch appeared—leading the beautiful, silver horse she’d seen her first day on the ranch. Today he looked more like a horse in a movie than a figurine, with his snowy coat lightly dusted with speckles of ash, his silvery mane and tail flowing in the wind, and his powerful neck arched and taut.
He was beautiful.
But he didn’t act at all like a horse in a movie. He stayed as far away from Fletch as he could, yanking against the lead rope with his huge head as the trainer urged him out of the pasture. The horse’s ears lay flat against his skull and his nostrils flared.
When they reached the corral, where Hanna was standing, the horse stopped abruptly and pawed the ground. When Fletch tried to get near him, he backed away, ears flattening even more. His massive chest muscles bunched up underneath him like he might turn and bolt at any moment, and if Fletch didn’t let go, he’d get dragged along behind.
This close to the horse, Hanna’s blood rushed faster. He was the biggest, scariest animal she’d ever seen.
“Hanna,” said Fletch, sounding strong and stern, “open the gate to the corral and put the grain inside. Make sure you shake the bucket.”
“But . . . !” If she was inside the corral when the horse came through, he might trample her.
“Hanna.” His voice left no room for objection. Shocked, Hanna grabbed the bucket of grain and went into the corral, shaking it as she went. The horse’s ears tipped up and forward, and he stopped pawing. With Fletch moving out of the way, the horse edged toward the corral.
“Now put down the grain,” said Fletch. “You’re small enough—once he’s about to go into the gate, I want you to slide out through the fence. Okay?”
Hanna’s heart was pounding so hard she almost couldn’t hear Fletch over the sound of it. She could get trapped inside the corral with a horse—a horse that appeared quite out of control, even with an experienced trainer.
Hanna set down the bucket, still shaking it to keep the horse’s interest. The huge animal walked toward her, closer and closer to the corral’s open gate.
At the threshold, he paused, and his ears perked forward. He was no longer looking at the grain on the ground but right at her.
Hanna froze, rooted to the spot, same as when they saw each other her first day at the ranch. His huge brown eyes stared through her, and she couldn’t stop him. He took another step toward her, this time through the gate, and Fletch let the lead rope slide out of his hand.
“Hanna,” whispered Fletch, “get out of the corral.”
Her senses returning to her, Hanna squeezed out between the fence’s metal bars. The horse, curious, walked after her into the corral—and Fletch closed the gate behind him.
When he realized what had happened, the horse turned, ears flat against his head again, and tried to go back out the way he’d come in. But the gate wouldn’t budge. With deft fingers, Fletch reached over the gate and unhooked his lead rope.
The big, gray horse squealed, like a creature in a horror movie. Flinging his head from side to side, he pressed his entire weight against the closed gate. Hanna jumped back from the fence as the whole thing gave a metallic rattle. When he realized the gate wouldn’t give, the horse turned and galloped back along the edge of the corral, knocking over the bucket of grain and scattering it across the dirt without a second look. Only one thing mattered to him: getting out.
Around and around the corral he went, ears pressed back against his skull, his huge nostrils flaring as he looked for a hole or weakness in the craftsmanship. Sometimes the horse would stop and turn and run back the other way, throwing his head over the top of the fence and taking huge, rumbling breaths.
Every time he completed a circle, he stopped on the other side of the fence from Hanna and stared at her. Fletch stood beside her, and they both watched in silence as the wild, terrible creature flung his head to and fro, mane tangling up in itself, and continued running in endless circles until he’d worked up a foamy, brownish sweat.
“What . . . what is he?” asked Hanna.
“He’s hopeless,” said Fletch. “Paul, the ranch manager, found him wandering around with the cattle up on the north end of the ranch. Abandoned, maybe, or escaped. Ma Etty wanted to find his owner and return him, because we thought for sure it was a mistake. By
his head and conformation, we’re pretty sure he’s at least part Hanoverian—a kind of German sport horse—and we couldn’t imagine anyone losing a fine creature like this and not desperately wanting it back. So we checked with the sheriff, but no one’s reported a horse missing.”
“He’s so beautiful,” said Hanna. “Why would someone intentionally abandon him?”
“I don’t know,” said Fletch. “After we started trying to work with him, though, we might not have returned him anyway, no matter who came forward. He was rail-thin when we found him, and he’s obviously been abused. He had the saddle sores and was head shy to prove it.”
“Head shy?”
“Don’t raise a hand too close to his head,” said Fletch. “He freaks out. It reminds him of being hit.”
“So what did you do with him?”
“Nothing. Nobody could get him under a saddle without him biting or breaking loose. Madison, Paul, Ma Etty, and even Mr. Bridle tried—and Willard Bridle’s the best horse trainer I know. He’s worked with wild mustangs. But he had no luck, and no one around here has the time to start over from scratch with Shy Guy, what with camp going all summer.”
“Shy Guy?”
“I gave him that nickname after he came to us, because he’s so terrified of people.” Fletch’s voice dropped low, dangerously low, and his kind, almost sad face turned hard and cold. “Whoever owned him before really did a number on him.”
Hanna glanced at the horse in the pen, still anxiously trotting in circles. Abandoned. Abused.
Afraid.
“Why did you put him in the corral?” asked Hanna.
“Shy Guy’s back at square one, like he’s never even been broken. No, worse—he’s at square zero, because we can’t even get close enough to trim his hooves. At least a green horse will let you do that.” When Fletch leaned his weight against the corral fence, Shy Guy let out another terrible squeal and backed against the opposite fence. Fletch sighed and stepped away. “And if we can’t trim his hooves,” he said, “they’ll grow out, break, chip, or even make him lame.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with the corral or me,” said Hanna.
“Shy Guy needs to be socialized—just enough that we can trim his hooves, maybe get him into the barn again and off eating grass all the time, now that he’s fattened up a little. Ma Etty hopes that if he spends enough time around people, in a safe, calm environment, we could work up to exercising him with a longe line. Even if no one can ever ride him again, he needs the attention and to not be alone all the time.” He leveled his gaze on Hanna. “And that’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
“You. All I want you to do is feed him. Give him water and be near him. You don’t have to touch him—you don’t even have to get close. In fact, it might be better if you keep your distance. Just let Shy Guy get used to your presence. That’s all I ask.”
“But—”
Fletch held up a hand. “It’s not the most glamorous job, but I think it will be good for both of you. And it’s what Ma Etty wants. If you can’t do it, you’ll have to tell her yourself. You’re the only one on the ranch with time to spare right now.”
Hanna’s whole body felt cold. Her job was to stay near that massive, powerful, unpredictable horse? He was way worse than little Lacey. He was wild. Out of control.
When she looked at him, Shy Guy stopped his pacing and looked back at her. His brown eyes roiled with fury. But under that, she saw something else—something familiar.
He was terrified.
Hanna knew exactly how he felt.
Chapter Seven
As morning turned into afternoon, the sun cooked Hanna like a fried egg on pavement. The high altitude made it worse—the sun never beat down this hot and bright back in Michigan.
Shy Guy had slugged down his water after all that running around and left the bucket bone-dry, so she’d have to fill it again. And she had to somehow get the empty bucket out of the corral—where a big, dangerous horse was currently tromping around.
Waiting until Shy Guy was distracted on the other side of the pen, Hanna edged closer to the corral fence. She snatched the bucket out from between the metal rails without him noticing. Whew. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and clutched the bucket to her chest.
First part completed.
Hanna had to use all her weight to push down the long, metal handle on the water faucet. As icy water shot out, she splashed some on her face and then finished filling the bucket.
When she got back to the corral, Shy Guy had stopped pacing and now leaned against the fence, looking as close to despondent as a horse could look. He shifted from one foot to the other and flicked an ear in her direction, but that was all.
Hanna set down the bucket. She’d have to get close enough to the corral again to slide it back under the fence, but she didn’t want him to freak out and rear or kick when she got close. She walked around to the other side of the pen, hoping she could slip it under the fence without him seeing her, but as soon as she moved, he turned and followed her with his eyes. It was like a game of chicken—he wanted to keep an eye on her, and she didn’t want to be seen.
So Hanna stood there, simply watching him, and Shy Guy watched her back.
Neither of them moved for a long time as she thought about what to do. Shy Guy’s tail lashed some flies that had landed on his rump, scattering them.
They were both baking in this heat. But he was a horse—he couldn’t splash himself with cold water as she had. Hanna glanced down at the bucket of water.
He was calm, for now. But how long would that last?
Stuck between getting close enough to give him the water and keeping a safe distance, Hanna simply sat down and gave up her jeans to the dirt. Every time she moved, he flicked his ears at her, but the longer she sat still, the more he relaxed—and began to look bored.
And so, so hot. Hanna wasn’t covered in hair like he was, but sweat still dripped down her face.
Finally, she stood up. Shy Guy glanced at her but didn’t move. He looked more curious than anything.
She took a deep breath, picked up the water bucket, and edged toward him.
He focused on her, both ears flicked forward. Hanna took another step toward the fence. Dust rose from the edges of her boot.
Shy Guy’s nostrils flared. He must be taking in the smell of her. Animals were sensitive to smell, she remembered. What if her human scent set him off? What if it reminded him of all the humans who had done him wrong before?
Shy Guy readjusted his weight so he was standing on all four legs. Hanna could feel her pulse all the way up in her throat, in her hands, in her feet, pounding away like an out-of-control marching band. Water sloshed out of the bucket, surprising them both as it hit the ground.
Shy Guy retreated one step back, eyes wide, and stared at the wet spot in the dust as if it offended him. Hanna didn’t move any closer, but she also couldn’t look away.
He was majestic, no doubt about that. Majestic and terrifying.
And thirsty, she reminded herself.
Trying to steady her hands, Hanna took yet another step toward the corral fence. Shy Guy lifted one hoof, as if to match her step forward with one of his own back—but then set it down again. He focused on the water in her hands, his nostrils sucking in the smell.
One more step brought Hanna to the fence. Only a few rickety metal crossbars separated her from a thousand pounds of skittish muscle and hooves.
Panic welled up inside Hanna. Shy Guy’s huge head was so close she could smell him. He smelled like . . . horse. Sweat. Grass.
And he, undoubtedly, could smell her too. His neck arched and his sturdy, barrel-chested body poised to flee.
Hanna dreaded getting any closer, and she could tell Shy Guy was just as torn between his fear of her and his thirst. He wanted the water she had, but getting close—putting himself in a position where someone could hurt him—was too much for him.
She knew how he felt. When Hann
a dropped something on the floor, slouched, or talked with food in her mouth, she’d panic like that. Had her mom seen? Would she be spending another evening balancing books on her head to “correct” her posture?
Hanna was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. After she’d started stashing under her bed the candy bars, energy drinks, trinkets, and even a pair of expensive sneakers she’d stolen, Hanna waited to be discovered. Her mom would blame Hanna’s friends, her school, and everyone except herself—proving, yet again, how much she just didn’t get it.
Shy Guy took a sudden step forward and Hanna jumped. He angled his head up and opened his mouth, exposing two rows of huge, square, white teeth. Hanna shrank back, almost dropping the bucket of water.
But he didn’t lunge or snap with his jaws. He simply waved his lips around, open and closed, like a fish, in the silliest expression Hanna had ever seen a horse make. He reminded her of a frog prince trying to get a kiss.
A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. Shy Guy leaned back, surprised by the sudden noise. Hanna covered her mouth.
“Sorry,” she said to him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Hanna was still holding the water, and again, Shy Guy waggled his lips at her. Well, if a horse was ever going to come right out and tell her he was thirsty, this was it.
Her fear dried up like that splash of water in the dust. She squatted down and pushed the full bucket under the fence. Shy Guy stepped back. His nostrils reached an impossible size and his eyeballs bulged, like he thought the water would bite him now that he’d finally gotten it.
The hard work was over. He had something to drink. But now Hanna’s fear rose its massive head, and she realized how close she was to the fence—and the massive horse behind it.
Letting out a little wail, she skittered backward like a crab. Once she was a safe distance away, she let out a gasping breath and fell back in the dirt.
Shy Guy was startled too and stood uneasily a few feet from the fence. But the water drew him back, and with timid ballerina steps, he returned to it.
Hanna got up and dusted off her pants. The adrenaline finally caught up to her, and she drowned in a tidal wave of fear, happiness, and at the end of it . . .
Shy Girl & Shy Guy (Quartz Creek Ranch) Page 4