Owen's Daughter

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “You may have come late to the game, Glory, but you’re a first-rate mom, through and through. Now take a little nap while I put these clothes away.”

  By nine-thirty the next morning, Skye was champing at the bit to do something, anything. She had already tidied up the casita and ironed her good jeans and a white shirt for the gala. It was as dressed up as she could get, because there was nothing appropriate in Mama’s closet. She’d go in to Reach for the Sky early, earn more hours off her community service. Clean up the barn. Groom the horses. Help decorate. She had to fill the hours of her day until her lessons.

  She worked up a good sweat in the barn and then got ready for her first trail ride. She led four young men who were in treatment for juvenile offenses around the ring and then a quarter mile on a trail. When they first arrived, they were throwing gang signs and cursing. She thought about taking them back to Mr. Vigil. Instead, she remembered something Valerie had taught her when she was introducing new students. She handed them halters and ropes and said, “Catch a horse.”

  “By ourselves?”

  “That’s the idea,” Skye said. “It’s easy. You’re all strapping young men. Go find one you like and put the halter on it. Then bring them over here, so we can go over how to saddle them.”

  Oh, those big bad juvenile criminals turned into little boys instantly. Valerie was right—this approach worked every time. She held back a laugh after one of them put a halter on upside down. Within ten minutes they were calling her ma’am and willing to do whatever she told them. She rode in the back of the line of horses so she could watch them. When she asked, “Who’s up for galloping?” she was met with silence. They weren’t after speed any more than she had been in her childhood days. Back then it hadn’t been about going fast. It was about the view. From atop a horse the world was different. She was in her own domain when she was on horseback—without bullies or arguments between her parents—and a slow trail ride allowed her imagination the time to transport her into another realm. Now it made her smile to see this in the boys. On the turnaround point on the trail, the boys argued over whose horse was better.

  “RedBow,” said Paul, the boy closest to her.

  “Little Mac,” Julio said. “He’s the nicest. Plus, he’s the color of oro. Gold.”

  Skye smiled. Some kids saw a Palomino and that was that.

  Once they were back at the barn, she showed them how to groom the animals and then allowed them to feed the horses carrots. She heard some sniffling and knew that these gang boys had discovered that unconditional love did exist in the world, and that one place to find it was in the company of the horse. The van driver arrived to take them back, and two of the toughest-looking boys cried as they said good-bye to the horses.

  “Keep racking up those good behavior stars,” Skye told them, waving. “Then we can do this again.” Skye had spent the hour blissfully free of worries about Gracie, but the second the boys were packed off, she was eating her guts again. She checked her cell phone every two minutes in case the lawyer called, trying to think where else she might look. Oklahoma? How much gas would it take to get there? Could she stand taking a bus?

  After they left, she asked Mr. Vigil for the fifty dollars, and when he told her the treatment center hadn’t paid yet, her heart sank along with her morale.

  But soon it was almost time for her second trail ride. All Joe had told her was that the client’s name was Opal and that she would be bringing her own saddle. Skye was more worried about her bringing a checkbook.

  Because the gala was to begin at five p.m. sharp, the stable was a hive of activity. What with trucks unloading tables and chairs, and a shrill young woman with a clipboard directing the flow of traffic, Skye was concerned the horses would be jumpy. The party planner, about Skye’s age, pointed men carrying tables in one direction, while another group with chairs went inside the barn. “No, no, no!” the woman yelled. “They go outside! The heaters, too!” The workers scurried around like confused ants, and Skye felt sorry for them.

  The fact that the sky was gunmetal gray did not appear to faze that woman at all. Skye was relieved not to see her dad. The first ride had taken a ton of effort, reducing her energy level by half. She made the decision to put both a bridle and halter on Coconut, a white gelding who had chestnut ears that looked like a child’s cap. He also had the requisite chestnut shield on his chest, making him a true “medicine hat” paint horse. The history of the medicine hat horse was one of Skye’s favorites. Duncan had told her that the Plains tribes believed the horses, born so rarely, had supernatural powers. The only people allowed to ride them were tribal chiefs, medicine men, and the best warriors. But it wasn’t just the Indians. Cowboys went nuts for paint horses, and medicine hats were frequently stolen, particularly the mares. Not Coco. He was gelded, past anything but this, quiet lessons, the occasional trail ride. She fastened on his bridle and bit and rubbed the horse’s withers, checking to see if he was lame. Next time she’d have Opal do everything, but today it was better to do the bridling herself.

  “Let’s go earn me some money, you monsters,” she said, walking Lightning and Coconut out of the barn. She could feel the barely controlled jitters in both animals. Even safe, bomb-proof horses liked a nice, quiet barn, dinner on time, the occasional carrot, and no surprises. Skye hoped none of them would flip out at the gala. She waited by Joe’s office. The ride was scheduled for one-thirty, and Skye expected Opal to be late, what with crosstown traffic. But there she was, right on time, getting out of a Cadillac SUV, wearing a sparkly sequin scarf and a matching pink shirt that could have been designed by the late Nudie Cohn, that outrageous Ukrainian tailor who’d made clothes for Elvis and Porter Wagoner and ZZ Top. Rhinestones on embroidered cactus. Loopy white piping on the sleeves. There was no other designer who did things that cool except for Old Gringo.

  Immediately Skye felt guilty for not selling her boots and teared up.

  From the waist down, Opal was all business in tan English riding breeches with suede patches inside the knees. She was carrying the most beautiful English saddle Skye had ever seen. Its curves and decoration were classic and simple, but the quality of the leather was what made it perfect. The woman looked so thin and moved so slowly that Skye doubted she’d make it another foot with that saddle, let alone survive a trail ride. She put on her best smile anyway and walked toward her.

  “You must be Opal. I’m Skye, and I’ll be taking you on your trail ride today. Would you like me to saddle your horse? His name’s Coconut.”

  “Oh, no. I can do it,” Opal said, shocking Skye by swinging the black saddle and sheepskin pad up on Coco as if it were nothing. She sneaked a sugar cube to him, and Skye pretended not to notice.

  “I could use a little help with the girth, though,” Opal said. “Damn arthritis.”

  Skye twisted the leather strap inside itself. “That’s quite a saddle,” she said as they walked their horses to the gate.

  “It’s a Passier,” Opal said. “I bought it in Germany.”

  “It looks really comfortable.”

  “I admit, it’s awfully cushy on my old bones. Yours is a Muster Master Australian stock, isn’t it? Boy, does that bring back memories. I used to ride in Australia when I was a young lady.”

  Opal really got around. She looked as if she were in her eighties, wore the awesome clothing—perhaps the real thing—had been to Germany and Australia, and now lived in Santa Fe. Skye admonished herself for judging Opal before she met her. This elderly lady was not at all what she’d expected.

  Opal smiled at Skye and reached out to touch her cheek. “Honey, if you don’t mind me saying so, you have black mascara streaks running down one side of your face. Would you like a La Fresh Travel Lite? I don’t go anywhere without them.” She reached into her pants pocket and handed one over. “Now this may sound crazy to you, but Preparation H cream is great for taking down eye swelling. If I were a nosy person, I’d ask who is the rogue who caused your tears.”

 
Skye laughed. “Good thing you’re not nosy.”

  “Just tell me, male or female?”

  Skye smiled wider. “Uh-uh. Opal, if you tell me your level of riding, then we can go on our way. Sounds like you’ve had lots of experience.”

  “I haven’t ridden for several years,” Opal said, “but I’m sure it’ll come back to me. I was brought up on a horse ranch in Lexington, Kentucky.”

  Was there anywhere she hadn’t been? Skye checked Lightning’s girth strap again, to make sure it was tight. “I guess I wonder why you want a trail ride—not that I’m complaining—if you have so much experience?”

  “Oh, it’s not for me, not entirely. It’s a trial run for my girls’ group, the CFOBs. Every month one of us poses a physical challenge for the group. So far we’ve done hot-air balloon rides during Albuquerque’s festival, zip lines at Angel Fire, hang gliders, and a most unfortunate BBQ where Adrianna served us grilled rattlesnake. Trust me, it does not taste at all like chicken. I wouldn’t give that to my dog. I hid my serving in her potted mums.” She laughed, a tiny tee-hee only older women could get away with. “Anyway, now it’s my turn to pick our activity, and I thought this sounded like a fun way for us to get some fresh air, provided we can keep our wigs on.”

  “Wigs?” Skye echoed.

  “Side effect of chemo.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Skye said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t feel badly. Most of the ladies are doing just fine. Sometimes you have to push yourself back out into the world,” she said, lifting her arms as if she held the whole world in her small hands. “You have to be more courageous in remission than you were during treatment. We created the club so we could keep each other’s spirits up.”

  Skye watched as Opal placed her helmet over her chin-length bob that was black and shiny, with enviable platinum-blond streaks. It didn’t look like a wig, but apparently there was some incredible wigmaker on the level of the Passier saddlemaker.

  Opal adjusted her embroidered cowboy-style pearl-snap shirt and said, “I’m ready.”

  Skye couldn’t stop looking at the shirt. Sometimes, not often, she’d come across a Double D Ranch brand or Johnny Was shirt at Double Take, a secondhand store down the street from the Guadalupe BBQ. Even used, they cost a lot of money. “So, Opal,” she said. “You have such a pretty name. Were you named after a relative?”

  “Nope, born in October, named after the birthstone. Papa always said I was his little gem.”

  Skye pulled up a mounting block with a step attached. “You know how to use mounting blocks?”

  “Yes, I do. And I despise the fact I can’t get up without help.”

  “You won’t feel bad for long. Everything looks better from the top of a horse.”

  “How sweet to hear you to say that. My father used to tell me the same thing.”

  Skye got her settled, then went around Coco to get to Lightning. She walked him forward, coming around Opal’s left side.

  Opal was focused on the man heading into the barn. “Who is that handsome man?”

  Skye thought it best not to respond. Opal was already holding her reins the correct way. Skye was impressed. “Do you need me to go over any of the basics? The emergency stop?”

  “No, dear. ‘Grab mane and press yourself into the horse’s neck.’ I remember all that. What a wonderful feeling this is,” Opal replied. “Makes me wonder why I waited so long to ride again.”

  She pointed back over at the man who was now tipping a bale of straw end over end toward the barn. “That fellow is so handsome he could be on the cover of a romance novel.”

  “Opal,” Skye said, “stop looking at that man and pay attention to your horse.”

  “A girl’s allowed to look,” she said.

  “Not when it’s my dad,” Skye said.

  “Oh, my heavens,” Opal said. “I thought he was Kris Kristofferson. Will your father be around when my girls come to trail ride?”

  “I imagine he will since he’s the barn manager. Can we please go now?”

  “All right,” Opal said. “Just one more thing. Is he married?”

  Skye sighed. She stood in front of Lightning and placed two fingers between his ears, and he dropped his head until his muzzle was almost touching the ground. Skye almost put her right foot in the stirrup but remembered a trick she’d taught Lightning years ago. Would he remember? Facing his beautiful spotted muzzle, she planted her legs about a foot apart. Her arms reached toward his poll, and he flexed his neck muscles. She made a kissing noise, and Lightning jerked his head up, and Skye was slightly airborne before she landed deftly on his back, facing his butt. The fact that he remembered touched her in the sore places, but also made her sad. She turned herself around, put her feet in the stirrups, and took hold of his reins. “Let’s head toward the gate.”

  “That was astounding,” Opal said. “Can you do that when the ladies are here? Tell them that’s how you get into the saddle. They will flip their wigs, literally!”

  “I’m not sure that’s the best way to inspire confidence,” Skye said, “but I suppose it couldn’t hurt, so long as they realize it’s a stunt.”

  “No, you have to let them think it’s the standard,” Opal said, her laugh going from polite to laugh out loud. “You probably think I’m a mean old woman, but honestly, I’m not. I just like to have a little fun.”

  Skye headed toward the gate with Opal following, then bent down to open the latch, shoo Opal in, and lock it after herself.

  “When do we canter?” Opal asked.

  “How about we just walk and trot today?” Skye suggested. “Maybe next time we can canter a little. Now, Coco will follow behind me if you make it clear that’s what you want. No wandering off trail, okay? Nobody wants cactus spines, least of all the horses. See that rock? We’ll ride out to there, turn around, and come back.”

  “Ah,” Opal said. “The Cieneguilla Petroglyphs. That’s the perfect spot for a picnic. The girls would love it. We could get Chocolate Maven to put together a proper high tea, spread out a blanket, let the horses graze.”

  On what? Skye wondered. Nothing grew there besides weeds. “Today we’ll just concentrate on getting there and back. Another time we can stop there and hike up to see the petroglyphs or eat chocolate.”

  “I haven’t been up there in probably twenty years. After my Diego died, I just stopped doing things.”

  Skye listened as Opal poured out her heart, and it wasn’t all recipes and cowgirl dreams, either. Imagine, having the love of your life die in your arms. Opal had seen most of the planet, including Antarctica. She told Skye about her daughters, one of whom was a power Realtor, the other an attorney who had a 100-percent win record in her practice. “The old-boy network is terrified of her,” Opal said. “They’re just the most modern girls you ever could find. I don’t think Shannon has cooked a single dinner in her life. Jodie works so much I told her she ought to set up a cot in the courtroom. They hardly ever have a minute to spare. And neither one wants my Haviland china. Then there’s the everyday original Fiestaware, two complete sets, and the Stickley furniture.”

  “What’s Haviland?” Skye asked, listening to the creaking of her saddle, thinking of the hidden places she needed to soap up, to get it flexible.

  “Oh, Skye. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to tell you the whole, exciting story. The company began in the 1700s, and has a delightfully juicy history, what with cutthroat competitors and the discovery of true kaolin clay in Limoges, France. Artists like Rodin, Dufy, and Cocteau all made a contribution to the china known today as Haviland. It was the White House china during the Lincoln administration. Google it up on the computer sometime. It’s as engrossing a story as anything Ngaio Marsh or Dorothy Sayers ever penned.”

  Skye had never felt so uneducated in her life. “I’m sorry. Who are they?”

  Opal posted the trot perfectly until she was up alongside Skye. Then she slowed Coco to a walk. “This will keep you from wrenching you
r neck to look at me. Darling, they are the most marvelous mystery writers of the 1930s and ’40s. On our next ride, I’ll bring you some books to read. Or you can pop by my house and pick them up. I live at Waldo and Houghton. I must warn you, I rescue miniature dachshunds, so there’s a bit of barking.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right borrowing your books,” Skye said. “They sound like they’re valuable.”

  Opal laughed, a tinkling, glassy sound. Even her laugh sounded well informed. “At my age,” she said, “I can give things away to whomever I want. After all, they’re just things. Besides, knowing you’ll read them makes me happy. Think of the discussions we can have.”

  I just met you, Skye wanted to say, but in the next breath she asked herself, what on earth prevented her from making a friend who was maybe sixty years older than her? “I look forward to meeting your friends,” Skye said. “I’ve been wondering about the ‘CFOBs.’ What’s it stand for?”

  “Cancer-Fighting Old Broads,” Opal said.

  Skye looked at her and raised her eyebrows, suppressing a smile.

  Opal laughed again. “Yes. We thought we should have an acronym for our little club.”

  They were silent as they reached the turnaround point. Skye had to pay more attention to Coco and Lightning here, as they both tended to be barn sour, just like RedBow. “Keep your reins tight,” Skye said.

  “Is it all right if I trot just a little?”

  “I guess so,” Skye said, “but keep him on a short rein. Who knows? Coco is an old man, but I’ve never met a horse that didn’t want a chance to get his yayas out.”

  Opal smiled at her and assumed the formal position of an English rider. She began by pressing her legs against Coco until he sped up, then she slowed him down, as they agreed to a lovely, quiet pace, moving slowly. “Good boy,” Opal said, patting Coco’s neck. The gait was what Skye’s father called a “gentleman’s jog.” And it was beautiful.

  When they were unsaddling the horses after they’d returned to the barn, Skye wrestled up the courage to ask, “Do you mind me asking what kind of cancer you have?”