The Long Trail Home (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  The little black-and-white goat was the size of a large cat. Milk leaked out of the corners of its mouth as it slurped on the oversized baby bottle. Its furry ears waggled while it drank.

  “That goat is even cuter than the chicks,” said Rivka.

  “Give him to me,” said Cat. “I wanna hold him.”

  Sam tightened his grip on the little goat. “He’s eating.”

  Rivka squatted down next to Sam and scratched the goat on the head. “I am never leaving the feed store.”

  When the baby drained the last of the milk, Carla took him from Sam. “I told Pete, who owns the store, that I’d give the little guy a once-over,” she explained and began to run her fingers over the squirmy creature.

  “Why is he here?” Lauren asked. “Where’s his mom?”

  Rivka glanced at her. Lauren wasn’t crying, for once, but she looked worried.

  Carla shook her head. “He was a triplet, and his mom couldn’t feed that many.”

  “That’s really sad,” said Lauren.

  “It happens. But don’t worry too much,” she said, scratching the baby between his ears. “This guy is in great shape, and I know a woman in town who might need a goat buddy for one of her horses.”

  “What would a horse want with a goat?” said Cat.

  Carla looked at her for a moment. “Everybody needs a friend, right?”

  Cat shrugged and seemed about to argue, but Paul gathered them up to load the trailer. “Work together,” he said. “Those bags of feed weigh fifty pounds.” Cat and Sam paired up, and Rivka and Lauren worked together. By the time all the supplies were stowed, Rivka and the rest were hot, sweaty, and ready for ice cream.

  Paul led them down Main Street to the ice cream shop. A Formica-topped counter stretched the length of the interior. Rivka grabbed one of the round stools near the end and ordered mint chocolate chip.

  While she waited for the young man behind the counter to scoop the ice cream, she scanned the flyers tacked to the announcement board on the wall. Yoga for Cowboys promised to add flexibility to even the most saddle-bound rangers. A handbell concert was coming at the end of June, and it wasn’t too late to enter the Famous Quartz Creek Fourth of July Parade. Amid posters advertising the services of massage therapists, horse trainers, knife sharpeners, and tack cleaners, she saw a sign printed in crisp white letters on a red background. It said GO HOME!

  The words, those sharp-edged letters, the way the poster was yelling at her—they made her shoulders tense, and a shiver ran through her that definitely wasn’t from the air-conditioning.

  Rivka lifted a flyer for banjo lessons that partially covered the rest of the sign.

  America is for Americans.

  English Only.

  Hey Mex—Get Out of Our Country.

  At the bottom of the sign was a call to gather and march on July 25th at four p.m.

  Rivka dropped the banjo flyer, seeing in her mind the bright red spray paint on the door of her synagogue. Rivka’s fists were clenched under the counter, and when the man brought her ice cream, she had to force her fingers to uncurl and take the cone. They don’t mean me, she thought. I’m not Mexican. This wasn’t the same as what happened at home.

  “How’s the mint chocolate chip?” said Paul, sliding onto the stool next to her.

  “What? Um, great. Thanks,” Rivka stammered.

  Paul pulled on one end of his bushy mustache and peered at her like he guessed she had something on her mind. “That’s good, that’s good,” he mused, still observing her carefully. “Are you sure you haven’t hidden baby chicks in any of your pockets or anything? You look a little suspicious.”

  He meant it as a joke. She knew that, but something about what he said still made tears prickle behind her eyes. People really did assume the worst about other people. They figured they knew you without even knowing you. She didn’t want anyone going to that stupid rally.

  “Hey,” Paul said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  She really might cry now.

  Why did he have to be so nice?

  “I was thinking about the baby goat,” she stammered.

  “Don’t I know it,” said Paul. “Wish I could have tucked the little guy in my coat pocket.” He finished up his sundae and began gathering the other kids for the trip home.

  Rivka finished her cone and went back to the wall of flyers with her heart pounding against her ribs. She pretended to study the announcement for a slide show on the dinosaur fossils of Colorado. As soon as she was sure no one was watching, she took down the flyer for the rally and crumpled it into a ball. On the way out of the ice cream shop, she threw it in the trash.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, Rivka brushed Rowdy until he gleamed, and spent ten minutes rubbing the little spiral under his bangs. She knew she was supposed to call it a forelock, but he seemed like such an eighties rocker of a pony that every time she looked at him she saw feathery, well-coiffed bangs.

  “You should start a rock band,” she told Rowdy. In reply, he prodded her with his nose and huffed into her ear.

  “Helmet,” said Madison, handing one to Rivka. “Rowdy’s saddle and bridle are in the tack room. Each rack is labeled by horse.”

  Rivka made her way into the back room of the barn, which smelled of leather oil and horse sweat. There were a couple of small, streamlined saddles that Fletch had said were for riding English-style, but most of them were Western saddles with a pommel at the front and tooled leather on either side. Rivka could hardly believe how much smaller Rowdy’s saddle was than the one for Sam’s horse.

  “Are you excited?” she asked Sam.

  He nodded, but didn’t look up from the saddle. As Rivka watched, he tapped the saddle in a steady rhythm, starting with the pommel and working his way across the length of the saddle.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, tucking her arm underneath Rowdy’s saddle.

  “Gotta do the parts in order.”

  “Huh?”

  “The parts—pommel, seat, cantle, skirt, fender, stirrup, gullet . . .”

  Rivka gaped at him. “How do you know that? I thought that you’d never ridden before.”

  “Fletch told me.”

  “And you memorized everything, just like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  Sam blushed. “It’s the only thing I can do right.”

  Rivka shifted awkwardly.

  He shrugged. “My mom says it’s really annoying.” He hefted the saddle onto his arm and left the tack room.

  For a second time, Rivka thought of her parents having their “summer off” from kids. It made her cringe to imagine the things they were probably saying about her. After their last big fight—the one where she’d said she would rather die than go through with her bat mitzvah—her mom had turned blotchy red and her voice had gone through the roof: You are the most frustrating person I have ever known! Her dad had sat there shaking his head, looking so disappointed. Stubborn, he’d said. Why are you so stubborn?

  This is why she needed a goat buddy. Or at least a horse buddy, she thought, looking down at Rowdy’s saddle. People were too much trouble. They never seemed to be able to get along.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  In the arena, Fletch and Madison had them tie their horses to the crossbars of the fence and watch a demonstration. Rivka made sure to put Rowdy within reach of a tasty-looking clump of grass. She couldn’t help but notice that the rest of the kids seemed to be on the same agenda as she was—stay as far away from one another as possible. They were spread out in the arena, studiously avoiding eye contact.

  In the center of the arena, Madison was mounted on a black-and-white spotted horse, who pranced around, tossing its head in the air. Fletch, who was on the ground next to them, teased her. “What do you think this is, dance class?”

  “You know . . .” Madison panted as she worked to get the horse calmed down, “Snow White is al
ways a little feisty at first . . .”

  “All right, cowpokes,” said Fletch to the kids, “gather ’round and watch the show. This is how Madison likes to instill confidence in all y’all.”

  “Hey!” said Madison, reining Snow White in to stand next to Fletch. “You know what Ma Etty always says: A challenging horse taught me everything I know.”

  Fletch tipped back his cowboy hat. “One thing you kids should know is that your summer will be filled with Ma Etty quotes. By the end, you’ll be requesting T-shirts.”

  Madison laughed.

  Fletch picked up a long, slender stick with a strip of narrow leather on the end. “This is called a carrot stick. It’s not a whip. Our work at Quartz Creek Ranch is based on trust, not force. No one forces these horses to do things they don’t want to do.” He gave them all a long look. Rivka felt Lauren twitch like a nervous mouse next to her. “First lesson,” Fletch continued, “is how to sit on your horse.”

  Cat snorted. “Seriously? All I get to do is sit on Bucky?”

  “Seriously.”

  Fletch took the carrot stick and used it as a pointer to indicate Madison’s ear, shoulder, hip, and heel. “See how Madison has a straight line running through her body? This is the go-to position on the horse. Her core is engaged and she’s got good alignment from ear to heel. Her arms are neither too tight nor too loose.” He demonstrated by pulling on the reins of the bridle. Madison’s hands came forward gently and in control.

  “So we’re going to sit on our horses all day today?” Cat said. “Super exciting.”

  “I knew that you’d be into it,” Fletch said flatly.

  Madison smiled at Cat. “We’re going to walk too. Watch.”

  The second she looked forward again, Snow White slid into an easy stride, muscles rippling under her smooth flank. The trainer and the horse looked like they were one animal. It sent a thrill through Rivka. To be understood like that would be amazing.

  “How did you do that?” Cat asked.

  Madison turned the horse in a circle and came to a stop in front of them. “Watch again. With horses, small can be much more powerful than big or strong.”

  “Fact is,” said Fletch, “horses are always larger and stronger than you. Our communication with them should start subtle and only get bigger if they don’t listen the first time.”

  Sam kicked at the dirt under his boots. “My dad should be on the receiving end of this lesson,” he muttered. Rivka watched him out of the corner of her eye. The slump in his shoulders made her wonder about his dad and about why Sam had ended up at Quartz Creek Ranch.

  “A big breath in, a slight shift of your weight forward, and a click of the tongue,” Fletch was saying, “is often enough to get your horse moving.”

  “If that doesn’t work,” says Madison, “follow up with a squeeze of your legs.”

  She demonstrated and walked Snow White in a tight circle.

  “I don’t want to see any of you yelling giddy-up and kicking your horse in the barrel,” Fletch admonished. “You are not in a made-for-TV Western!”

  “I like movies,” Sam said without looking up from the dirt.

  Madison swung down from her horse, and she and Fletch showed Lauren and Cat how to mount up. After that, it was Rivka’s turn. Up on Rowdy’s back, Rivka felt kind of dorky. Her long legs curved around his fat little belly and felt almost like they would skim the dirt. He stood stolidly, and Rivka got the distinct impression that he expected this to be the dreariest part of his day. That gave her a pang of sadness.

  She wanted to be fun.

  She really did.

  Being the problem child wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “Rivka?” Madison patted her on the knee. “Hello in there. Anybody home?”

  She shook her head and twitched on Rowdy’s back. “Sorry. Wandering.”

  Madison tilted her head to one side and looked at her with concern. “I see that. Are you okay?”

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  “Okay,” the trainer said with a gentleness that Rivka imagined her using with a hurt dog or a heartbroken child. Madison gave her knee a squeeze. “I need you to stay focused up there. Otherwise, it stresses Rowdy out.”

  Rivka nodded. “Got it. Don’t stress out the pony.”

  Madison took a step back and appraised Rivka’s form. “You’ve got a good natural seat,” she told Rivka. “You sit tall. Not stiff like a board, but no slouch. Perfect.”

  Rivka smiled at her and lifted her hands, holding the reins. “What do I do with these?”

  Madison adjusted Rivka’s grip on the reins and then took hold of the thin leather straps and tugged on them. “You want to keep this amount of tension between you and Rowdy. If you stiffen up and jerk on his mouth, he will refuse to move for you. He’s stubborn that way.”

  “But if he’s stubborn, don’t I have to be tough with him?”

  Madison looked up at her. “That seems logical, doesn’t it?”

  Rivka shrugged.

  “Well,” her trainer continued, “what you have to do is learn to speak horse.”

  “That’s what Paul said.”

  “Smart man,” Madison said. “There are two common mistakes people make when riding. The first is giving mixed messages to the horse.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Like pressing in with your heels, which means Let’s get going, and leaning back, which means Slow it down. Mixed messages.”

  Rivka chewed on that idea. Mixed messages were like her father suggesting that she think about the bat mitzvah when he really meant You have to do it or her mother saying that nothing bad would happen to her at their synagogue when Rivka knew that was a lie.

  “What’s the other mistake?” Rivka asked.

  “Yelling,” said Madison.

  Rivka frowned. “People do that? They just scream at their horses?”

  Madison smiled. “Not like you’re thinking. Yelling at a horse is when you give them an instruction and then keep giving it louder and louder and louder. In other words, say you want your horse to turn, so you pull on the reins. And then each time you keep pulling harder and harder. That’s yelling.”

  “So I pull, but then what?”

  “You’re a smart one,” the trainer said with a grin. “I can tell.”

  Rivka grinned back.

  “You give a tug and then relax as soon as the horse starts to respond. Your job is to really pay attention to what the horse is saying back.” Madison let that sink in. “Ready to give it a go?” she asked.

  “I guess so,” said Rivka.

  “Perfect!” The trainer traced a wide circle in the air with one finger. “Take a lap around the arena. Strong seat. Start subtle. Listen to your horse.”

  Rivka took a deep breath, suddenly panicked by how much there was to remember. She leaned forward and pressed her calves against the pony’s sides.

  Nothing.

  “You’re holding the reins too tightly,” said Madison. “Let your arms be like a rubber band, stretch with him.”

  Rivka tried again. Breathe, lean, squeeze. At the last moment she remembered that she should also make that clicking sound with her tongue. She did it and, lo and behold, Rowdy hopped into a perky little walk.

  Madison crowed. “Awesome! Achievement unlocked! You are on your way to being fluent in horse!”

  Chapter Eleven

  By the end of the lesson, Rivka was mentally and physically exhausted. She collapsed into the porch swing next to Cat. “There are so many different things to think about all at the same time. My brain hurts.”

  Cat was sweaty and sunburned. When she lifted her sunglasses, she looked like a raccoon. “My legs are noodles. They will never recover.”

  Sam joined them on the porch steps. “You were all like, We’re just going to sit on our horses?! How hard could that be?” His impression of Cat from the beginning of the lesson was spot on.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Cat, too wiped out to put up more of a fight.r />
  Lauren came out of the big house with a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and a tower of glasses in the other. Rivka took the cups, and Sam pulled a small table over. They sat in silence, quenching their thirst and watching a couple of chickens peck their way across the lawn. It was almost lunchtime, and the sun was straight overhead. A few bees lazily circled the roses climbing up the porch. The horses in the pasture chewed mouthfuls of grass in slow motion. There was hardly any breeze. Not even the leaves on the trees seemed inclined to move.

  Rivka caught a glimpse of a cloud of dirt way down Bridlemile Road and watched as it resolved into a pickup truck rumbling toward them. It clattered through the arched gateway of the ranch and braked in front of the house. Dust billowed around the beat-up truck in the dry air. Three men who had been packed shoulder to shoulder in the cab piled out. Even though it was hot, they were wearing jeans and long-sleeved flannel shirts, and handkerchiefs knotted around their necks. The man who had been driving tipped his cowboy hat back on his head and approached the kids.

  “Buenos días,” he said. “I am looking for Paul, the manager here.” His accent gave the words a smooth, rolling lilt.

  The two men behind him scuffed their boots in the gravel and exchanged a few words in Spanish. After two hours of paying super-close attention to Rowdy, Rivka read the nervousness that came off of them like they were speaking horse. The sense that something was wrong made her suddenly alert.

  “I’ll get him,” she said while the others were still staring open-mouthed.

  “Gracias,” said the first man who had spoken.

  Last time she had seen Paul, he was checking on Chickpea. The pregnant horse was standing in her stall, half asleep, but there was no sign of Paul or his giant mustache. Rivka checked the tack room. Empty. She heard some kind of banging out back and went to check behind the barn. Sure enough, there he was. Or, at least, she thought that was Paul, half obscured by the engine of a big piece of farm equipment.

  “Knock, knock,” she said, coming up next to the tractor.