Sell Lightning. “I guess so.”
The next time her dad was shoeing at the stables, he did Prince, Kaitlyn’s Lipizzaner. Kaitlyn’s dad insisted on holding Prince’s lead rope, which her dad didn’t like all that much, because sometimes a horse spooked. He liked to have the horse cross-tied, because that was safer, but he went along with it.
“If you do a good enough job on Prince, maybe you can do our other horses,” he said. “Of course, with five horses, we’d appreciate a group rate, or discount.”
Kaitlyn’s dad was a stockbroker. Even his casual shoes had tassels.
Her dad didn’t say anything for a while. “How much does one of these horses run?” he asked.
“For you or your daughter?”
“My daughter,” he said. “I’m a western rider, came from a long line of cowboying, raised Sara Kay the same way.”
“You could get a learner horse for about five grand,” he said. “If she wants to show to win, you’re looking at a minimum of forty grand. Anything under that and you’re invisible to the judges.”
Sara couldn’t see it, but she knew her dad’s jaw dropped open. When her dad finished shoeing Prince, Kaitlyn’s dad said, “Here’s a twenty for your trouble. You could put it toward your daughter’s horse fund, eh?”
“Drop me out front,” Sara told her mom at the next etiquette lesson. She waved, watched her mom drive away, and then went to the atrium of the hotel, where she sat for forty-five minutes looking at a tree that looked as if it would rather live in Hawaii. Did trees get lonely? Then she pulled out her Pocket Dictionary of Horses library book and read for the remaining hour of class. When it was over, she trailed behind the girls who had attended. It worked for two lessons, but then her mom tricked her, arriving early to watch the end of the class. When Sara emerged from the atrium and came to the lobby, her mother grabbed her by the arm. “I spent good money on these lessons,” she hissed. “You are going to attend those classes if I have to drag you myself.”
The remaining classes went by in a blur. Sara learned how to offer her hand so a gentleman would shake it, and about situations where she shouldn’t offer it. She learned to make a lopsided swan out of a cloth napkin, to cross her legs at the ankles, to lift a teacup with the all-important outstretched pinky. Then they started walking lessons, the reason her mother cursed her to this circle of hell in the first place.
“Sara, suck in your tummy,” Mrs. Wadsworth scolded her.
“But it hurts,” Sara said.
Mrs. Wadsworth put her hands on her hips, which she did whenever she was appalled by a girl’s major faux pas. “That’s the way of the world as far as women are concerned, so you’d best learn to live with it.” Then she turned to the other girls, the ones who weren’t infested with cooties. “Girls, remember to tell your mothers to bring their checkbooks next week. We’ll be starting part two of our program.”
That Sunday, earlier than she ever got up, Sara made sure she was dressed in her Wranglers and one of her dad’s old shirts so she could go with him to the stables. On the drive there, he said, “Your mama told me you cut some of those classes and now you don’t want to take advanced manners, or whatever it’s called. Why? I thought you liked going to them.”
“Those girls are nothing but a tribe of skags.”
“Your mother would skin you alive for using that word.”
“Daddy, promise me you won’t make me go back. I hate it. The girls make fun of me. They’re stupid. I don’t belong there. I already know how to say please and thank you and I tiptoe now. Please, can you make Mama understand?”
He nodded. “I’ll try my best.”
“Thank you.”
A few miles later, he said, “I may have found a buyer for Lightning. A nice client’s little girl wants something flashy to barrel race. They offered twelve hundred. With that kind of money we could put a down payment on an English horse for you, and I could take a loan out for the rest. What do you think?”
Sara screeched so loudly that her dad winced and put a hand over his ear. “Don’t you dare sell Lightning! I love my horse.” The sobs that came out of her were huge and wet, complete with dripping snot and an instant headache, another introduction to how things in the world went for women. “Nobody else knows what he likes, and he loves me.”
Her dad handed her his bandanna. “I’m heartened to hear it. Unless we mortgage the house, I can’t afford one of those big-time horses, but if that’s what it takes to make you happy, I’ll try.”
“Hell, damn, and shit, no, I don’t want that! I want to ride western for the rest of my life.”
“I did not know you could talk like that. It’s fine this once, but cut it out from now on, okay? Truth be told, I’d prefer you stay clear of those inbred sociopaths.”
“You mean Kaitlyn and her dad?”
Her dad laughed and laughed. “No, sweetie, I’m talking about imported European horses. You think Europe sends their best horses to the U.S.? Hell, no. They’re importing the worst of the breed, and getting rich off it.”
As the miles peeled by, Sara thought about how close she’d come to betraying her daddy, and worst of all, her horse. It seemed like something you could try to forget but then found out you couldn’t. Worse, the second you felt sad or embarrassed, it rose to the surface like a bubble. Like Mrs. Wadsworth. Like hearing your mother yell at your dad for not measuring up to her idea of a husband. “I love Lightning,” she said. “Just so you know, I’d never sell him, not even if I was poor, or homeless. I’d live in a tent so I could keep him. I’d skip lunch, even dinner, to make sure he got fed.”
Her father nodded and kept his eyes on the exit sign for Cherry Creek.
“There is one thing I’d really like to do, Daddy.”
“What’s that?”
“Set fire to those stupid white gloves and that awful panty hose Mama says I have to wear. Really, Daddy. All that money and what’d I learn? Nothing.”
“Now, now,” her dad said. “It wasn’t all bad. And you did learn how to walk more quietly. How about after we’re done shoeing, we stop by Dairy Queen to get a Blizzard, wreck our dinner, huh?”
She laughed, thinking of how appalled Mrs. Wadsworth would be, because overeating led to an overly rounded tummy. Shit, damn, and screw, she said to herself. Mrs. Wadsworth can go to hell, the old bitch.
“Price for a sandwich has gotten out of control,” Owen said as he folded his money back into the clip he carried and returned to their table at the Teahouse with their coffee drinks. He picked up somebody’s discarded newspaper and opened it to the want ads. “Skye, honey? I’m not sure I can find work in this town,” he said. “Maybe in Española, or farther out. You all right with me being an hour away?”
“Sure,” she said, caught up in remembering the horrible etiquette lessons. By now, Mrs. Wadsworth was probably pushing nettles out of her grave because the daisies all had committed suicide.
“You know, down south, there might be more opportunities to put my trades to use. I learned how to train dogs in prison. Doesn’t seem to be much of a market for training assistance dogs here, however.” He handed her the newspaper. “Read me the want ads,” he said.
She looked up and her lower lip trembled. “I don’t feel like it. You read them to me.”
“I would if I could, but I can’t.”
“Did you forget how to read?”
He looked away, hurt.
People at the other tables were laughing, happy, not having stupid, petty arguments. Once he had regained his composure, he answered. “I love to read. But I stepped on my reading glasses this morning, and I haven’t had time to buy another pair.”
“Daddy, I’m sorry. I’m such a brat.”
“I reckon you have a right to be bratty, but I don’t think it helps anything.”
The sandwiches arrived. Open-faced roast chicken nested in a salad of basil and tomatoes. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you,” the server said.
&nbs
p; Skye set down her coffee and said, “Daddy? Guess what?”
“Chicken butt?”
At her dad’s smile a great weight lifted off her soul. She leaned over the table and kissed his wrinkly old cheek.
“Well, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that, but I’ll take it,” he said.
She cut a piece of chicken and tomato and sighed at the taste. So far, the want ads were mainly for nurses, educators, and businessmen. Then she saw it. “Listen to this one, Daddy. A stable running horse programs wants a barn manager. Can you imagine how many applications they’ll get from idiots who think that’s an easy job?”
Owen wiped his hands on his napkin. “Circle that in pen. Now read me the number.” He took out his cell phone and dialed as she recited it. The message he left was perfect. When he ended the call, he smiled at her. “Soon as we get back to the peed-off-terrier, I’m going to write down all my skills and you can check the spelling for me. I don’t give a hoot how many people apply. That job is mine.”
Owen stood up while Skye bussed the table. “I know, I know,” she said. “It’s the waitress in me. I can’t leave a dirty table.”
“I was going to say that’s a lovely habit to have.”
When they walked outside, the wind blew through the trees, bringing with it the scent of sage and piñon. Her dad untied Hope’s leash and fed the dog the crusts he’d saved from his sandwich. They walked down Canyon Road, looking at the red adobe, the fences worn by time and weather, galleries interspersed between historic houses painted the color of the mud they came from. Windows and doors were the shade of blue Santa Fe was famous for but had bleached in the sun and ranged from turquoise to indigo. When they arrived at a street called Ave de Colibri at one end and Colibri Road at the other, one of those alleyways tucked sideways between Canyon Road and Acequia Madre, Skye noticed the houses there were smaller, less fancy than the others. “Wonder what they cost?” she mused.
“A pretty penny,” her dad said.
“Daddy, look at your dog.” Hope was barely keeping up with them. His three-legged gait looked so uncomfortable, it made Skye want to pick him up and carry him. “Poor guy, he’s exhausted.”
Owen bent down and rubbed the dog’s ears. “I reckon the downhill grade is too much for him. I got some Absorbine in my truck.”
“You still use that? Chapman’s doesn’t stink, and it comes in a gel. You should buy some when you run out of that old sideshow crap.”
“Well, excuse me all to crazy. Absorbine has worked fine for me for many years. Matter of fact, I rub it on my own lower back, and I’m still standing.”
They stopped to rest a minute, and what looked like a brown rez dog came racing out the front door of one of the houses. Hope wagged his stumpy tail, and the brown dog lay down in the road, showing Hope her belly.
“What do you say, Hope? Is she girlfriend material?”
“Daddy, really. What a thing to say!”
“I’ll have you know Hope was once in great demand as a stud. He threw beautiful pups.”
The two dogs had a little confab, and Skye looked at the house the dog had come from, the front door ajar. At each window, blue-painted window boxes waited for spring. Then a woman—possibly forty, but no older—hurried out, balancing a baby on her hip. Her hair was silver, not gray, and Skye could tell it had gone this color way earlier than it did in most other people. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Curly! Come on in the house right now. I hope she wasn’t bothering your dog,” she said as she walked closer, trying to get Curly’s attention. The woman smiled grimly. “One of my daughter’s dogs. She opens doors. The dog, I mean.”
Her dad smiled. “A dog that smart will settle down some if you teach her tricks.”
The woman nodded. “I know you’re right. I used to train all my dogs, and then she came along.” She looked down at the baby. “Now I’m lucky if I get time to brush my teeth.”
“Cute baby,” Skye said, looking into the child’s big eyes. “What’s her name?”
“Sparrow.”
“What a perfect name,” Skye said. “How did you decide on it?”
The chubby baby was drooling onto her bib, blinking at the new people she’d just met. “It’s a long story. But it seems to fit her, doesn’t it? Everyone says her eyes are hazel, but to me they seem gray, the color of a sparrow’s feathers. Curly, come on,” she said. “Enough bothering these people.” Curly was on her feet now, and major sniffing was taking place. The woman sighed. “We need to get her spayed.”
“You know, I do some dog training,” Owen told her as he took hold of the dog’s collar. “Don’t suppose you’d have any use for that service? Or maybe a dog walker?”
“Actually, a dog walker is exactly what I need. Do you have a card?”
“Not on me. I can give you my phone number, if you have something to write on, and write with.”
“Sure.” She looked down at the dog as if she were trying to figure out how to manage getting her leashed, all that and the baby, too.
“Let me hold the baby for a second,” Skye said. “Come here, little Sparrow.” The woman handed her over, and Skye felt the same thrilling sensations of holding Gracie for the first time. Memories she’d taken for granted—days gone by that would never come again—washed over her.
The woman leashed the dog and patted her pockets. “I don’t have a pen with me. But I have one inside. Can you come in, just for a second? Then I can put the baby down and get the dog out back. You must think I’m out of my mind. I’m not, I swear, just pregnant—the stage where your brain is in a fog and you cry at the least little thing. Come on, my house is right over here.”
“Skye?” Owen said.
“Coming.” This woman had an adorable baby and another on the way, and she lived in a house that could have come from a fairy tale. How did people get that lucky? Skye followed her up the steps and into a great room with flagstone floors, a groaning bookshelf, a playpen, and so many toys scattered about that it looked like a baby store riot. Her dad took the runaway dog to the French doors, let her out, and two larger dogs, a border collie and a mutt, immediately greeted Curly while Hope sat there, uninterested.
“Thanks so much for helping,” she said. “I’m Glory.”
“Skye. That’s my dad.”
“Talk about a beautiful name. Did your dad name you?”
“He’s really great with dogs,” Skye said, sidestepping the question. She took one last inhalation of that powdery, baby scent before placing Sparrow into the playpen. “Me, I prefer babies.”
“They do have an appeal,” Glory said, “especially when they’re clean and happy.” She pulled open a desk drawer and took out a yellow Post-it note pad and a chewed-up pen. “I hope it still has ink in it,” she said, shaking it.
Owen wrote down his phone number and “O. Garrett.” “I hope I can be of service to you. Seems like you have your hands full.”
Glory laughed. “You don’t know the half of it. My older girls, my dog walkers, are either at work or at college. I’d be happy to hire you to walk the big ones every couple of days.”
“The big ones?” he asked, gesturing at the three dogs outside racing around one another. “Does that mean there are others?”
She whistled. “Eddie!” Around the corner came an Italian greyhound. “He’s perfectly normal,” she said, “so don’t worry about how thin he is. It’s a sight hound trait.”
The little dog was wiggling his butt off, trying to get Glory to pick him up.
“Miniature greyhound?” her dad asked.
She nodded. “Italian.”
“I’ve trained full-size greyhounds, smart dogs. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a greyhound this small.”
“It’s a toy breed. He’s full-grown. I got him from a shelter.”
Eddie walked around the three-legged heeler, observing.
“It’s my pleasure to walk whichever dogs you want,” he said. “Just tell me how long a walk, what kind of exercise, and I’
ll tucker them out for you.” He walked toward the front door, his tripod dog following.
The second Skye had let go of the baby, the hard-to-ignore desire to use had risen steadily. How great it would feel to have an OxyContin or three, a drink of anything—even a baby Valium would help. There was nothing like it when a drug kicked in and blunted everything that was difficult or painful. She loved when the hurry-up-and-feel-the-calm hit her like a rush, the relief from the constant anxiety that bubbled in her veins. When she looked at Glory, she felt certain the woman could tell what she was thinking.
“It was nice to meet you, Skye,” Glory said. “Owen, put a business card up at Kaune’s. Santa Fe’s a real dog town. Most people around here shop there. And everybody works, so I bet you could get new clients in a week’s time, or less.”
“Will do.”
Skye walked toward the door, following her father.
He stopped just below the steps, staring at the house next door. He had one hand up as if to shield his eyes from the sunlight, but it wasn’t sunny out at all. He looked back at Glory, about to say something, just as the sounds of a fussing baby began.
“Well, that’s my cue,” Glory said, then hesitated. “Owen? Clearly, I’m nobody to talk, but you should know there’s a leash law in this part of town. It’s a fifty-dollar ticket.”
“Thanks.”
Skye watched her dad reach into his jacket pocket, pull out a leash, and hold it in front of Hope. The dog delicately took the leather in his mouth and turned to walk back in the direction they’d come.
Glory laughed. “Get video of that on your smartphone, and it would make a great advertisement for your services, Owen.”
“Give me a ring and we’ll set up a time.”
“Great,” she said, and walked back to her house.
“Daddy,” Skye said, “what the heck were you staring at?”
“Just before the baby started crying, I swear I saw a girl standing right there. Dressed strange, like an old-time Indian in deerskin and feathers, long braids.” He pointed to the little bit of yard in front of the house next door. “Hope even growled at her. He never does that.”
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