A Horse to Love
Page 11
“You do that. Tell him next rainy day,” said Aunt Lexie. “No use wasting good weather on housecleaning.” Her old eyes looked dreamy. “Potato salad,” she said vaguely, “and some Japanese lanterns, maybe, for after dark. Or those candles that keep the bugs away.…”
Erin went for a ride.
She could never remember, after she came back to the stable, what it was that she had seen, so much, or any wonderful event that could explain her great happiness. Blue violets in the grass, new green ferns, leaves like small, soft hands brushing her face—but she could have seen all those things, walking. It was the riding itself, the process, rhythmic movement and warm sunshine, Spindrift’s eager step and bobbing head and the rich horse-and-leather smell of her, the way her white ears swiveled half around when Erin spoke to her, the soft white fringe of fur on those ears.… Spindrift pricked her ears toward everything she scented or saw. Was it all right? Yes, Erin said it was. The gentle voice, the feel of the firm seat on her back, the knowledge that she had someone with her, Erin riding her, gave her peace and courage. A proud horse, a bold horse, she carried her head calm and high.
“Dad’s proud of me,” Erin told her.
A flicker of a white ear. All was well.
“You just wait till Marcy and Riddle can ride with us. We’ll get you past that bad place where the bear scared you.… I think Marcy’s a friend. She likes me.”
Even tempo of hooves, muted in loam, beneath trees. A soft snort. A birch catkin dropped on Spindrift’s neck, and she shook away the itch like a dog, startling Erin into laughter.
“You’ve mussed your mane.” Erin smoothed it down. “Pretty girl. Old gray grouchy mare. What has got into Aunt Lexie, I wonder. I think she likes me, too.”
Spindrift fluttered her ears and twitched the skin of her neck—an early deer fly was bothering her. Erin reached forward and swatted it for her.
“Let’s have a canter, okay?”
Did she say a canter? Hi ho, here we go. Gaily the little mare lifted into it from the walk.
Homeward bound, through the woods at the easy canter just for the fun and challenge of it, ducking branches … there was a sudden noisy chatter of voices, and Spindrift shied, jumping sideways.
It was Erin’s school friends, four of them, running into the woods along the path, bursting into sight from behind the laurel bushes. They had not spooked the horse badly, not really. Erin’s legs, long and heels down around the horse’s barrel, kept her seat for her, and her hands, held low, checked Spindrift and circled her and brought her to a halt almost before she had time to think. But the mare looked awesome when she was spooked, Erin knew. There before her stood her friends, stone-still and very silent and staring, Mikkie Orris among them.
“Hi,” said Erin.
Not answering, they edged toward the side of the path. Spindrift was still snorting and rolling her eyes at them.
“It’s okay,” Erin told them. “Really.” It had been a while, she realized suddenly, since any of them had called her Dipstick. And they didn’t look as if they were about to now.
“Hey, Erin,” said Mikkie, her eyes on the horse, “you think Old Lady Bromer would give me riding lessons?”
“Ask her,” Erin said. “But call her Mrs. Bromer. Well, see ya.”
“See ya,” they all echoed, voices muted, and Erin rode on, thoughtful. She had seen a familiar longing on the face of the red-haired girl.
“Let’s not go home just yet, Spindrift,” she said suddenly, and she turned the mare in a new direction, riding her along the fringes of Terrace Heights.
It took a while until she found a way to get through to her house. She did not want to offend any neighbors by leaving hoofprints on their lawns. Sticking to the weedy stretches and vacant lots, she had to watch for remnants of old barbed-wire fences. But in due time, with patience, she rode Spindrift along the quiet end of her street and into her own driveway. Her mother, planting marigolds, turned toward the clop of hooves and stood up, brows arched in surprise.
“Hi, Mom,” Erin greeted her. “Spindrift wants to give you a big, green, sloppy kiss.”
“No, thank you!” But Tawnya Calahan came over and patted the horse’s neck. Spindrift swung her head toward her in a relaxed way.
“See? She knows you’re a great mom.” There, it was said, and Erin waved one hand and fled, trotting Spindrift back toward the stable.
It was almost dusk when they got there, and very quiet in the sleepy bird-singing way of summer evenings. No one was around. Aunt Lexie had gone into her house for supper. Erin cooled Spindrift, grooming her for a long time. “Good wossie,” she told the mare, hugging her around the neck, and for once Spindrift did not turn away from the caress, but grumpily bore it. Erin scratched Spindrift on her favorite place, the crest just above the withers, the place where horses like to rub one another. Then she put her into her stall to await her evening oats.
“Not my turn to feed. But dinner will be coming any minute.”
Looking sulky, Spindrift turned her back, and Erin laughed softly, warm with affection.
“All right, Spunko, be that way.” There, the mare had her barn name at last. “You’re a super horse. I love you just the way you are.”
Spindrift swung her head around to eye her, looking very white in the dusky light. Erin grinned at the mare, then lazily turned her own back, leaning against the stall and yawning. Time to go home—but it had been such a fantastic day, she hated to have it end.…
A soft snort sounded near her ear, and then a familiar nose, a large, dark, rubbery nose, poked through the stall bars. Familiar, but never so friendly before—the mare was nibbling at her hair! Astonished, Erin spun around.
“You couldn’t possibly be that hungry!” she exclaimed.
Spindrift’s nose came yet closer, only an inch from her own—and with a powerful noise the mare blew straight into Erin’s nostrils.
About the Author
Nancy Springer has passed the fifty-book milestone with novels for adults, young adults, and children, in genres including mythic fantasy, contemporary fiction, magic realism, horror, and mystery—although she did not realize she wrote mystery until she won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America two years in succession. Born in Montclair, New Jersey, Springer moved with her family to Gettysburg, of Civil War fame, when she was thirteen. She spent the next forty-six years in Pennsylvania, raising two children (Jonathan and Nora), writing, horseback riding, fishing, and bird-watching. In 2007 she surprised her friends and herself by moving with her second husband to an isolated area of the Florida Panhandle where the bird-watching is spectacular, and where, when fishing, she occasionally catches an alligator.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1987 by Nancy Springer
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8875-9
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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