A Horse to Love
Nancy Springer
To Jean Wertz,
who should have been an editor
Chapter One
“Oh, wow, she’s pretty!” Erin whispered.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Aunt Lexie warned her.
Erin knew better than to get her hopes up. The last horse had been a nag with a Roman nose and a goose rump and the name, really and truly, of Pig-poop. All of which would have been okay if it had been willing, eager to please, but it was not.
“Pretty is as pretty does,” Aunt Lexie added darkly.
The horse before that had been a pretty chestnut gelding with a cream-colored mane and tail, but he had been too coltish, too much of a handful for a young rider. The horse before that had been a nice black mare that Erin’s father might have bought except that the owner, while showing off her beautiful canter, had decided not to sell her after all. The horse before that had been a dark bay that was nippy and spoiled.
This one, Erin thought, was prettier than any of them.
“She looks kind of fat,” said Erin’s father doubtfully. “Is she—uh—pregnant?”
“Hay belly,” said Aunt Lexie. “Needs to be worked.”
The mare had been out to pasture, and the man was leading her toward them. “Grade mare, gray, 10 yrs,” the ad in the paper had read, meaning just a regular horse, not registered anything. Erin’s father had been singing “The Old Gray Mare” in the car all the way over. Slumped in the backseat of Aunt Lexie’s Blazer, Erin had come to expect a sway-backed nag built like a plow horse. But the little mare walking toward them was more white than gray, with a pretty white face, a dark nose, and big dark eyes that made Erin think of a deer’s eyes. Her small white ears were pricked forward, her forelock lying gray between them, and her head nodded at every step. The man led her up to them and turned her sideways so that they could look at her.
Aunt Lexie chewed at the stem of her pipe, her eyes hard and narrow as she studied the mare. She was not Erin’s aunt, not really, but the woman who lived half a mile down the road and raised Morgan horses. The other kids in the neighborhood knew her as Mrs. Bromer (or Old Baggy Bromer, among themselves), and knew that she didn’t let anyone touch her horses. When she had said to Erin, “You may call me Aunt Lexie,” Erin had understood at once that the “Aunt” was required. Erin called all her real aunts and uncles by their first names, but Alexandra Elizabeth Bromer was older than them and not to be messed with.
Erin tore her gaze away from the mare’s pretty head—Aunt Lexie said that only a novice looked first at a horse’s head. No feet, no horse. She studied the mare’s hooves and legs. They were charcoal gray, like her nose, and Erin thought they looked okay, straight and solid. She would not find out what Aunt Lexie thought until afterward, on the way home. It would be a bad idea to say anything about good legs in front of the owner. He might raise the price. Erin wanted to go over and pat the mare, but she was not supposed to seem too eager.
“Just lift her feet for us,” Aunt Lexie ordered the man in a bored tone.
One of her many rules: Never do anything with a horse that the owner won’t do first. If the mare tried to kick the man, that would be the end of it. He tied her to a fence post by the halter rope and lifted one forefoot—no problem. He lifted the feet one by one, and the mare did not seem to mind at all.
“All right, Erin, you do it,” said Aunt Lexie.
At last, a chance to get her hands on her.…
With the adult eyes watching, Erin remembered to hold back her smile, to walk, not run, over to the mare. But she took her time once she got there, patting the horse on the neck, looking into her big, dark eye, speaking softly.
“Hi, girl. How are you today?”
The mare looked back without blinking. Not a kind eye, Erin decided, but at least a soft eye. The large, barlike pupil glinted blue in the sunlight. Erin turned and bent, ran her hand down the foreleg and tugged at the front foot. After a moment it came up. She moved to the hind foot, listening for the tail swish that might come before a kick, feeling for tightness in the horse’s muscles. All was well, and the mare gave the foot.
“Should I saddle her up?” the man asked.
“Might as well,” said Aunt Lexie, taking her pipe out of her mouth to yawn.
They followed the man into the remodeled cow barn that served as a stable. Erin and her father knew the routine by now.
“She bite?” Mr. Calahan asked.
“Nope.”
“Kick?”
“Nope.”
“Spook?”
“Nope. Well, I mean, there ain’t none of them won’t spook at something. But I ain’t knowed her to spook hard. We ride her along the road, and she don’t mind cars or trucks or dogs.”
“Motorcycles?” asked Aunt Lexie with a hard look. “Gunshots?”
“No problem.”
“Why are you selling her?” asked Mr. Calahan, and the man shrugged.
“Too many horses.”
That certainly could be true. Nearly every stall in the barn had a horse in it, or a pony, all shapes and sizes and colors of horses and ponies, and there were more in the pasture. Erin, who was used to the bay and chestnut Morgans at Aunt Lexie’s, looked at roans, sorrels, Appaloosas with widened eyes.
“I bought her for my granddaughter, for pole bending,” the man offered, “but she ain’t fast enough for that. So now I bought that one there.” He pointed toward a handsome pinto that was kicking at its stall. When Erin glanced toward it, the pinto pinned back its ears and bared its teeth at her.
She quickly turned back to the “old gray mare” and watched, along with Aunt Lexie, as the owner put on a western saddle and a bridle with a western bit and clip-on reins. The mare stood quietly as he tightened the cinch, and she took the bit willingly.
“Want to try her, missie?” the man offered when he had led the horse out. “Her name’s Bianca.”
“You ride her out,” said Aunt Lexie before Erin could reply.
The man heaved himself into the saddle—the mare moved forward a few steps, Erin noticed, but no wonder, as he had jabbed his toe into her ribs. He took her out along the road at a rapid walk, brought her back at the trot. Bianca nodded her head at the walk, stuck her nose out high at the trot. The owner stopped her in front of Erin.
“Want to try her now?”
Erin glanced at Aunt Lexie, who nodded. “But I’ve never ridden western,” Erin said.
“Just sit to the trot.”
“Nothing to it,” the man told her. He boosted her up and handed her the reins.
“Wait,” Aunt Lexie said. “Those stirrups are way too long.” But the horse had already started off. Erin sat watching the eager white ears in front of her. She felt secure in the big saddle, even though her feet were swinging. She had ridden without stirrups before. Reins in both hands, as she had been taught, she let the horse walk out to the end of the driveway, nudged with her right leg and tightened her fingers on the right rein to turn her onto the shoulder of the road.…
The mare tossed her head up and fought the bit, dancing sideways.
“Neck rein her!” the owner hollered. “She rides western!”
“Hold both reins in one hand!” Aunt Lexie shouted.
Erin had already let go with her left hand. But her right hand missed catching hold of the other rein, somehow, in her hurry, and these reins did not loop over the horse’s neck like the English ones she was used to. Each was separate from the other. And the one she had dropped slithered down and slapped the dirt beneath the mare’s head.
“Whoa!” Erin exclaimed, tugging harder on her one remaining rein. The mare shook her head and fussed, prancing nearly onto the road.
“Oh, no,” E
rin moaned. “Bianca, please whoa. There’s traffic coming.” Scared, she grabbed at the saddle horn with her free hand.
Bianca stepped on the trailing rein and flung her head up sharply. Erin could see the flash of white in a frightened eye. Helpless, she sat clutching the saddle horn, not knowing what to expect next. She did not dare to pull on her rein again. Suppose Bianca fought her way even farther onto the road? But the mare did not move. Head up, ears tilted at a troubled sideward angle, she stood stone-still as a pickup truck and three motorcycles whizzed past her nose with a bone-jarring racket. By the time they were gone, Aunt Lexie had reached Erin’s side, and so had her father and the horse owner.
“Back, girl,” he said to Bianca, taking her by the cheek strap of the bridle. The mare stepped back, and the man picked up the trailing rein.
“She has good sense,” Aunt Lexie remarked, patting Bianca on the neck to calm her.
“Here you go, missie. I’ll tie ’em together for you.” The man knotted the reins into one and handed them to Erin. “Just push ’em against her neck, whichever way you want to go.”
Erin sat choking back an urge to cry. She felt stupid and embarrassed; she was frightened, and she knew she wanted this pretty little mare. If she wanted her, she had to ride her. Good sense, Aunt Lexie had said, right in front of the owner.…
Taking a deep breath, Erin squeezed with her legs, lifted the reins with one hand and clicked her tongue. Neck reining, she turned Bianca so that they were riding alongside the road. The mare walked willingly, and within a few strides her ears pricked forward again and Erin felt her relax. They reached an open space. Erin did several small circles, both directions, trying out the neck reining, then took the horse back. She did not feel like trotting. Cars went past—the mare did not mind them. Erin brought Bianca to a stop in front of the others.
“See if she’ll back up,” Aunt Lexie said.
“Back,” Erin ordered, tugging on the reins. The mare tossed her head and fussed, starting to dance again. Erin’s heart sank.
“Okay,” said Aunt Lexie. “Just walk her back to the barn.”
The old woman did not sound too disgusted. Perhaps there was a chance of buying the mare after all.
Erin dismounted and stood, trying not to fidget, as she listened to the adults talking. She could not tell anything from their polite chatter. At last, by some unspoken agreement, it was time to go. She slid into the backseat of the Blazer and waited. It did not occur to her to say that she liked and wanted the horse. Erin was not much in the habit of speaking up. Crumpled in her corner, she waited for the adults to hand down judgment.
“That’s a nice little mare,” Aunt Lexie said.
Erin’s father looked at the older woman in surprise. He knew very little about horses, although he was starting to learn for Erin’s sake.
“Nice size for Erin, fifteen hands,” Mrs. Bromer continued. “Old enough to have sense, willing enough, nice and calm.”
“She didn’t look calm to me!” Mr. Calahan protested.
“Only because of that ridiculous bit the man has on her.” Aunt Lexie’s voice rose. “Eight-inch shanks! And a port the size of Gibraltar. Every time you touch her mouth with that thing, she goes crazy. If she wasn’t such a quiet horse, she would have thrown him before now.”
“Oh, no,” said Erin, prodded out of silence by her own shame. “And I tugged on her. I’m so stupid—”
“Stop that,” Aunt Lexie snapped. “You did fine. I should have told you to neck rein, is all. Horse doesn’t have to come on the bit that way. English, you touched her mouth and she went bananas.”
“I thought we wanted an English riding horse.” Mr. Calahan sounded exasperated, perhaps by all the jargon he did not yet understand.
“She’ll be able to rein her English on a lighter bit. Erin has nice light hands, and there’s a good soft mouth on that mare.”
Yowsers! thought Erin, I might really get this one. My own horse! Oh, wow! A real horse. Bianca—I can give her a better name—omigoodness, come on, Aunt Lexie!
“But the horse misbehaved!” Mr. Calahan was wearing a stubborn expression. “It walked off with her!”
“Just so it didn’t run off with her,” said Aunt Lexie severely. “That man has let his horses forget their manners. Once she’s reminded, she’ll remember.” Alexandra Elizabeth Bromer stared hard at Mr. Calahan. “You’re never going to find the exact perfect horse. Not at the price.”
That last was a strong point. Breathless, Erin watched her father’s stubborn expression fade into one of doubt.
“I don’t know.… She sure didn’t look like much to me.”
Aunt Lexie snorted. “She’s been out to grass, that’s why! Horses get fat and flabby just like people. That’s why she has that big belly and no muscle in her quarters. But she has nice straight legs, hard hooves, nice slope to her shoulder, neck set on well, nice high withers to hold a saddle. Nice level back.” She stared again. “If she were in condition she’d cost you three times as much.”
“I just don’t know,” said Mr. Calahan.
Even though she was not used to speaking up, Erin was so anxious that she could keep silent no longer. “Dad,” she begged, “please.”
Her father turned and looked at her, surprised, as if he had forgotten she was there.
“I like her,” Erin added in a small voice. “She’s nice.” She did not say “pretty” because she knew the adults would laugh at her, but Mr. Calahan laughed anyway.
“That goes without saying, Squirt. Show me a horse you don’t like!”
She hated it when he laughed and called her Squirt, but she didn’t tell him so. She never had. Least of all this time, when she felt so close to having a horse of her own, if only he would buy it for her.
He turned solemn, looking at her. “I don’t know, Erin. It’s so iffy. The horse is supposed to get back in condition, remember her manners, learn to rein English—”
“It’s always iffy with horses,” said Aunt Lexie in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Oh. Well …” Mr. Calahan looked hard at Erin. “You remember our agreement, Squirt?”
She nodded, trying not to bounce with impatience. The agreement had been worked out during weeks of bargaining with her parents. If she wanted them to buy her a horse, she was to keep her grades up. She was to have no other gifts until Christmas. She was to mend her clothes and spend no money unwisely. She was to clean her room, change her bed, and help with the household chores.
Her father turned back to Aunt Lexie.
“So what do we do? Call the man and tell him we’ll take her?”
Yaaah-hooo! Erin shrieked mentally.
“Have her vetted first.”
Oh no. If the vet finds anything wrong, I am going to die, Erin thought.
“Horse has more sense than most people I know,” Aunt Lexie muttered. “More sense than—Do you realize that most horses would have gone totally out of control when they stepped on that rein?”
“So why does the man want to sell her?” Mr. Calahan retorted.
“He’s a fool. Likes them young and flashy and hard to handle. Stupid.” She curled her wrinkled brown fingers around the steering wheel of her Blazer in a forceful way as she drove them home.
Oh, wow, maybe really my own horse, finally! Go riding all spring, all summer, down the pasture lane and along the woods behind the development.…
Terrace Heights, the builders called it. Erin’s family lived there to be near the small Pennsylvania city where her father had his photography studio. Erin did not very much like their house, which was called a “rancher,” and which was not at all like any ranch house she had ever imagined. It didn’t have much yard, either. She had been disappointed when her family had moved in two years before. But there was still country behind the houses and the industrial park, and there was a marvelous place just a short bike ride down the road: Willow Hill Farm, Mrs. Bromer’s breeding stable, forty acres of green amid the built-up surroundings. Ever since s
he could remember, Erin had wanted a horse, and though she knew from the other kids that she would be yelled at and chased away if she tried to touch Mrs. Bromer’s horses, still … It did no harm to stand by the fence for hours, just watching.…
Aunt Lexie pulled into the driveway. A welcoming whinny sounded from the stable. Erin and her father got out and headed for their own car to go home for Sunday supper.
“Well,” said Mr. Calahan to Aunt Lexie, “thanks.”
“I’ll call the vet tomorrow,” said Alexandra Bromer. “Probably take him a week or two to get out there.”
A week or two!
“You call that man and tell him we’re interested and make sure he gives us first refusal,” she ordered.
“Okay,” said Mr. Calahan meekly. He got into his Toyota with the thankful look of someone making an escape. “Be glad that woman’s your friend, Squirt,” he remarked to Erin as they drove home.
Supper was ham sandwiches. Erin’s mother was working. She was assistant manager at the hospital cafeteria and worked alternate Sundays. Erin’s older brother, Mike, was home. Erin knew better than to say much about her horse to him. He would be sure to make fun of her somehow. She kept quiet, but she was so excited that she could hardly eat.
“Are you going to call the man now, Dad?” she asked as soon as they were finished.
“Huh?” Mr. Calahan stared a moment as if he had forgotten about it, then looked at his watch. “I’ll call him tomorrow evening.”
Tomorrow evening! “But, Dad—”
“He won’t sell the horse before then, Squirt. He would have told us if anyone else was coming to look. And we don’t want to seem too eager. I want him to come down fifty bucks on the price.”
“But Dad—”
“Erin want her wossie?” Mike inquired. Erin had called horses “wossies” when she was a baby. She glared at him.
“Cut it out, Mike,” Mr. Calahan said. He turned on the radio and put plates in the dishwasher as he listened to the news. Mike started to look at a car magazine, and Erin went to her room.
Erin’s room wasn’t much for frills. There was a green-ribcord spread on the bed, a big Sam Savitt poster of all the horse breeds on the wall above it, a complete paperback set of all the Black Stallion stories on the bookshelf, and a herd of Breyer model horses, small ones collected over a dozen birthdays and Christmases, on the dresser. Erin sat on the edge of the bed, tugged off her riding boots, and rubbed the brown leather dreamily. Mike wasn’t allowed in her room. It was her own, and she felt safe there with her horse thoughts.
A Horse to Love Page 1