The Long Trail Home (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  Lauren shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  The girls walked around the cars looking in windows. Nothing.

  “Let’s look by the barn,” Rivka suggested. There was something exciting about wandering in the starry dark way out in the boonies. It made her feel like an adventure could happen.

  They crossed the footbridge over the creek, and once they were on the opposite side of the burbling water, Rivka began to hear a new sound. It was faint at first, but grew louder as they approached the barn.

  “Is that music?” Lauren asked, wide-eyed.

  Rivka nodded. “I think so.”

  The barn door was cracked open and a little bit of yellow light fanned out of the opening. Sure enough, from inside came the soft, plaintive sound of an old folk song. The girls tiptoed to the door and peeked in.

  Paul, the ranch manager, was leaning back in an old wooden chair with his cowboy boots propped up on a hay bale and playing the harmonica. Cat sat on the stack of hay next to him with her feet tucked underneath her, listening and bobbing her head to the music.

  Stalls lined either side of the barn. Sleepy horses swayed on their feet. Some poked their noses over the stall doors when Rivka and Lauren passed. Others gave a lazy flick of the tail and went back to sleep.

  “Howdy, cowgirls,” said Paul, lowering the harmonica. “Grab a bale.”

  “Madison is looking for Cat,” said Lauren.

  Cat scowled and continued to pick apart a piece of hay.

  “I think she’s worried,” Rivka offered.

  “I’m fine,” Cat snapped. “Or I was.”

  Rivka held up two hands. “Just relaying the facts.”

  Cat started to snark back at her, but Paul interrupted.

  “Okay, cowgirls, let’s not get agitated. Cat and I are on lullaby duty here. One more song and then we’ll go let the crew know that everyone is accounted for.”

  He gestured to the bales, and the girls sat. Rivka pulled up her hood so she could lean back without the hay poking her in the neck. Paul cupped the silver instrument in his hands and began to play “This Land Is Your Land.” Rivka closed her eyes and let the music sway through her. Now and then a horse snuffled in the background and a bird rustled up in the rafters.

  She could get used to this.

  When he was done, Rivka heard quiet clapping from the door of the barn and opened her eyes to see Madison and Ma Etty leaning against the inside wall of the barn. Cat shifted uneasily next to her.

  Paul grinned and raised a hand. “Found your wandering camper, Madison.”

  “I see that,” said Madison.

  “What are you all doing in here?” Ma Etty asked, walking down the barn aisle toward them, stopping now and then to scratch horse noses.

  Paul tucked the harmonica into his pocket and looked a little sheepish. “Carla said that Chickpea is getting close, so I thought I might keep her company in here. Play the little mama a few lullabies before bed.”

  Ma Etty raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to sleep in here, Paul?”

  He blushed and ran a sleeve across his face. “Give a guy a break, will you, Ma Etty?”

  She beamed at him. “You can do what you like, but it’s bedtime for the rest of these music lovers. Come on, ladies. Big day tomorrow.”

  With reluctance, Rivka, Cat, and Lauren pushed themselves off the hay bales and followed Madison to the bunkhouse. As they left the barn, Ma Etty tucked her arm into Cat’s and talked with her in low whispers.

  Rivka caught bits and pieces of their conversation.

  Madison was worried . . . this isn’t about rules . . . taking care of each other . . . I know you know this. . . .

  Rivka wondered what it was that Cat knew.

  And more importantly, how she knew it.

  Chapter Eight

  Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Fletch and Madison led Rivka and the other kids to the barn for their first riding lesson. If Paul had spent the night in the barn with Chickpea, he’d left no sign of it. Rivka wondered what it would be like to sleep in the creaky old building full of huge animals, with hay tickling her nose.

  She went straight to Chickpea’s stall to check on her.

  “Baby?” Cat asked, coming up next to her.

  “No baby,” said Rivka, recognizing the peace offering.

  Madison joined them and stroked the horse’s nose. “Carla is pretty sure that it will be born while you’re here.”

  “That would be amazing,” Lauren sighed.

  “Yup,” the trainer agreed.

  Fletch opened one of the stalls and brought out a reddish-brown horse covered with white splotches and speckles. Madison gathered the kids on the hay bales in front of him.

  “This here is Sawbones,” said Fletch. “He’s the horse I ride. Since none of you has ever ridden before, Madison thought that a horse anatomy lesson was in order.”

  “Oh great,” Cat murmured. “School.”

  Fletch nudged the horse until it stood sideways to them. “Sawbones here is a quarter horse Appaloosa mix. His color is called strawberry roan. I’m going to start here at the muzzle,” said Fletch, laying his palm on the horse’s nose, “and walk you through the main features.”

  When he put his hand on the horse’s shoulder, Sawbones lifted his muzzle, opened his rubbery lips, and deftly plucked Fletch’s cowboy hat right off his head.

  “Hey there,” said Fletch.

  The horse shook the hat back and forth and then tossed it over his head so that it sailed right into Rivka’s lap. She burst out laughing, and everyone else did too. Even Fletch. Sawbones shook his muzzle in the air like he was cracking up.

  “Who’s in charge of this rodeo?” Madison joked.

  Fletch retrieved his hat from Rivka and settled it back on his head. “Sawbones likes to think he’s a real comedian.”

  The horse snorted with perfect timing.

  Fletch continued the lesson. Already the terms were getting mixed up in Rivka’s head. So many weird ones—pastern and chestnut, gaskin and hock.

  “Any questions?” Fletch asked.

  Madison scanned their faces. “Cat?”

  Rivka looked next to her. Cat had managed to tuck herself around the corner of the hay bales and had her nose in a comic book. Something with the Hulk on the cover.

  “Cat!” Madison repeated, no longer smiling.

  “What?”

  The trainer pointed to a knobbly blob on the inside of Sawbones’s knee. “What’s this?”

  Cat lowered the comic book and stared at the dark callus. Madison thrummed her fingers on her thigh, waiting.

  “No idea,” said Cat. “Scar from fighting in the zombie apocalypse?”

  Madison frowned. “Cat, you are supposed to—”

  Sam cut her off. “Chestnut.”

  All eyes flicked to him. Sam heaved himself up off the hay bales and approached the horse. With an intent look on his face, he began at one end of the horse and worked his way to the other, pointing as he named each part. “Muzzle, forehead, withers, shoulder, back, flank, barrel, point of hip, gaskin, hock, cannon, fetlock, and pastern.”

  Sawbones gave a little huff and nuzzled Sam’s shoulder.

  Fletch began the applause, a slow, deliberate clap that the others joined in.

  Madison dipped her head up and down with approval. “Carla would be impressed,” she said, and Sam flushed.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  At the far end of the barn, Madison introduced Rivka to a shaggy little pony named Rowdy.

  “Hey,” Rivka said, “I know you. You’re the one who was such a piglet for grass.”

  “That’s Rowdy, all right,” said Madison, patting him on the belly. Barrel, Rivka reminded herself. “He’s a big chowhound, this one.”

  Madison showed her how to buckle on the halter, clip on a lead rope, and tie a special knot to keep him in place.

  “You’ll have to give him an extra-good grooming,” said Madison. “He’s still shedd
ing the last of his winter coat. That’s why he looks a bit like a bunny.”

  When Rivka stood next to Rowdy, his ears only came up to her shoulders. She scratched under long, puffy hairs that swept across his forehead like windswept bangs.

  “He likes that,” said Madison.

  “Pretty fancy bangs for a horse,” Rivka said.

  “Forelock.” The trainer handed her a plastic tote full of combs and brushes and showed her how to use them. “Enjoy,” she said as she headed off to help Sam get to know a big brown horse two stalls down.

  Rivka lifted Rowdy’s forelock. Underneath, right smack in the middle of his forehead, the short, tight hair whirled into a spiral shape. It reminded her of her little brother’s cowlick. The pony seemed to like it when she traced a circular pattern around the spot. He huffed softly, a sound that Madison said meant he was content.

  With every pull of the curry comb, big clumps of hair came out. Pretty soon it seemed like she had a pile of fluff big enough to make an entire bunny. She switched to a stiff brush like Madison had shown her, and when she used a fast, flicking motion, it pulled the dirt up and out of his coat. It puffed in the barn air and made her sneeze.

  Rivka switched to the soft brush, and with every stroke Rowdy’s coat got shinier. She hummed under her breath as she brushed, and the pony seemed almost to go to sleep. His eyes went soft, and he swayed in place slightly as she worked. Rivka was lulled by the task too. It reminded her of kneading challah for Shabbat dinner and feeling the slick dough under her palms. She stopped brushing and tossed the soft brush into the grooming tote a little too hard.

  Rowdy’s ears took on a backward tilt, making him look suspicious, like he expected her to throw something else. Rivka took a deep breath. “Sorry.” Thinking about home was complicated, and she didn’t want to do it.

  “It’ll be okay,” Rivka told Rowdy.

  For the next six weeks, her job was to think about horses.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Fletch helped Rivka find a helmet that fit and showed her how to lead Rowdy out into the arena where the others were waiting: Sam and the brown horse, Lauren with a big red one, and Cat, who stood next to a tan horse with a black mane and tail.

  “Where’s Sawbones?” Sam asked.

  Fletch pointed out to the field, where they could see Sawbones rolling in a dusty patch of pasture. “So glad I groomed him this morning,” the trainer deadpanned.

  Cat gave her horse a stern look and said, “I don’t want any trouble from you, Bucky.”

  Madison joined them in the center of the arena. “We’re starting with ground work. One of the tricky things about riding is that you might not realize all the things that you’re communicating to your horse.”

  The kids stared at her.

  “Horses listen to you very carefully,” Fletch added. “The way you sit in the saddle tells them as much as what you do with the reins. We start on the ground so you don’t have to think of so many things at once.” He demonstrated the correct way to hold the lead rope—one hand close to the clasp on the halter and the other holding the loose end of the lead rope. “Why don’t you want to coil the loose end around your hand?” he asked.

  “In case the horse takes off, he won’t drag you with him?” Cat suggested.

  Fletch gave her a thumbs-up.

  “And why don’t you want a bunch of loose rope dragging on the ground?” Madison asked.

  Cat mimed a giant pratfall. The others laughed, and Madison said, “Exactly.”

  “Part of your job is to always be thinking ahead and anticipating things that can go wrong, especially things that might bother your horse,” Fletch said.

  “Or make your horse less responsive,” said Madison. To Rivka, she added, “You would be wise to steer clear from tasty patches of grass.” She pointed to the clump of grass growing at the base of the nearest fence post, and Rowdy looked longingly at it.

  The trainers showed the kids how to get their horses to walk at their elbows and stop when asked. They practiced getting the horses to back up and to change directions. Rivka paid attention to Rowdy, and pretty soon she figured out that he was a lot better turning to the right than to the left, and that if she let him get within a five-foot radius of tasty green stuff, he immediately stopped listening to her and she had to get Fletch or Madison to drag him away.

  After about an hour, Fletch laid out cones in the arena, and they practiced leading their horses through the obstacle course. When they stopped for a break—lemonade for the kids and grass for the horses—Rivka sat on the fence next to Madison.

  “Do they hate it?” she asked.

  Madison tipped back her cowboy hat. “Does who hate what?”

  “The horses. Do they hate walking around in circles like this?”

  “Well, it’s a little boring for them right now,” Madison admitted. “But most horses like to work. They want to please you. They want to do what you ask, which is why we spend a lot of time teaching you how to ask and how to listen.”

  “Is that what Paul meant about speaking horse?”

  Madison grinned at her. “Yeah, horses are herd animals. They look out for each other. To feel safe, a horse needs to know that you’ve got his back, that you’ll stand up for him.”

  Rivka thought about that. She wasn’t sure how a girl her age—not even thirteen—could stand up for anything.

  “You’re going to have your work cut out for you with Rowdy,” said Madison. “He doesn’t have that name for nothing.”

  Rivka didn’t like the sound of that. “Is he mean?”

  “Oh, gosh no. He’s a love, but he is a pony, and that means stubborn.”

  “How come you gave me a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

  Madison gave her a long, searching look. “He wants to be ridden, and he wants to have fun. Rowdy’s a particularly great trail horse, but he is strong-willed. Ma Etty thought you might know something about that.”

  Without waiting for a response, Madison hopped down from the fence and clapped everyone else to attention. Rivka watched her and wondered exactly what it was her parents had said in their phone interview with the Bridles. It wasn’t like she was stubborn or anything.

  Chapter Nine

  After lunch, Paul hitched up the horse trailer and piled the kids into the truck. “Brace yourselves,” he said. “We’re going to the big city.”

  Main Street in the town of Quartz Creek turned out to be so short that you could miss it in the blink of an eye. When Paul pulled into the feed store parking lot, Rivka shook Sam, who had fallen asleep on the short drive from the ranch to town.

  “What? Where are we?” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  “You drooled,” said Rivka, pointing to the shoulder of his T-shirt and wondering if he had narcolepsy or something.

  “Seriously,” he said, ignoring the drool comment. “When do we get to town?”

  “I think this is town.”

  He peered out the window. “Cool.”

  “Cool?”

  “Yeah. I like it.”

  “You slept through it.”

  “Through what?”

  “Oh, just let me out of the truck.” Rivka pushed past Sam and jumped out after Cat.

  Paul gathered the kids around him. “This is chore time for today,” he said. “We’ve got to load the trailer up with feed and bedding for the horses. If we get done in a timely manner, ice cream all around.”

  The thought of ice cream made Rivka’s mouth water. It was a hot day, made hotter by the dust from the roads and the un-air-conditioned van. She was dreaming of mint chocolate chip when she followed Paul inside the feed store. The place was full of soft twittering noises and smelled very farmy.

  “What’s making that sound?” she asked Paul.

  “Baby chicks,” he said, pointing to six large oval-shaped metal bins at the far end of the store. Red heat lamps hung over them, making the inside of the bins glow. “Go make goo-goo eyes over ’em,” said
Paul. “I need to check in at the register.”

  Each bin was full of the cutest, tiniest balls of fluff that Rivka had ever seen. A different variety in each bin—yellow, rusty brown, black-and-white flecked, brownish striped, black with yellow caps, and even ones with little white mohawks.

  Lauren and Cat knelt on either side of Rivka and peered into the bin full of yellow chicks.

  They jumped and hopped and twittered, constantly in motion, constantly making noise.

  “I am going to pass out from cuteness,” said Cat in a solemn voice.

  “I love them so much,” said Lauren, and an actual, real smile spread across her face.

  Rivka reached her hand slowly into the bin. The chicks scattered, and the peeping increased to mile-a-minute.

  “They probably think you’re like some giant alien coming to abduct them into space,” said Cat. With a smooth motion, she scooped up a chick and cradled it in two hands. It poked its fluffy head out between her fingers. Cat held it up to Rivka and made the chicken talk in a squeaky voice: “You’ll never take me alive, you tentacled monstrosity! Fight, chickens, fight!”

  Rivka laughed. “There should totally be a superhero chicken.”

  Lauren and Rivka each picked up chicks and were sitting on the floor of the feed store snuggling the babies when Carla and Paul came up. “You’re never going to get them out of here now,” the vet laughed.

  Paul took off his cowboy hat and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I am doomed.”

  “Can we take them home?” Lauren begged. “They love us.”

  “Good thing Ma Etty isn’t here,” said Carla to Paul. “She’s such a softy. You’d be going home with a box full of poultry.”

  Cat held up the chick in her hands. “I’ve already named it Turnip.”

  Paul held up his hands in supplication. “Can’t do it, girls. Why do you think I made the feed run instead of Ma Etty? I knew that this was a den of temptation.”

  “Don’t let them see the baby goat out back,” Carla said in a pretend whisper.

  The girls exploded in pleas to see the baby goat, and Paul pretended he was miffed at Carla. She laughed at him and gestured for the girls to follow. Reluctantly, they put the chicks back in the bin and headed to the lot behind the store. Sam was already there, sitting in the pen with a baby goat in his lap. He was giving it a bottle and beaming.