The Long Trail Home (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  “Hang on. Gotta tighten this down.”

  Rivka heard the sound of a tool on metal, grunting, and a rusty screech.

  “Got it!” said the ranch manager, emerging from the metal guts of the machine. “Well, hey there, cowgirl! How was your lesson? You and Rowdy BFFs yet?”

  Rivka grinned at him. “Not yet, but we’re getting there.”

  “Good, good. What brings you back here to my office?”

  “There are some men here to see you.”

  Paul raised a bushy blond eyebrow. “Is it the law?”

  It took a moment for Rivka to realize he was joking. “No. Nothing like that. But it looks serious. These guys seem upset.”

  Paul’s humor vanished. He wiped engine grease off his hands. “Okay then. Let’s go.”

  She trailed him around the barn and back to the porch. Lauren had given the three men lemonade, and they were drinking in silence.

  “Hola, amigos,” said Paul, striding forward with his hand extended. “¿Qué pasa?”

  The men shook hands all around and began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Rivka couldn’t follow any of it, but she watched their faces. Paul’s perpetual grin faded, and soon he looked as serious as the other men. After about five minutes, the men shook hands again and headed for the truck. Right before the driver closed the door, he called back to Paul, in English this time. “You’ll tell Señor Bridle, yes?”

  “Absolutely,” said Paul in a low, heavy voice. “Take care.”

  When the truck was gone, Cat set down her lemonade glass with a bang and stood. “That looked like serious drama. What’s going on?”

  Paul sighed. “Nothing for you guys to worry about.” But immediately, Rivka felt uneasy.

  “You know,” said Sam, pulling a piece of string out of his pocket and tying it into an intricate series of knots, “when adults say stuff like that, all it does is make us worry more.”

  “We can handle the truth,” said Cat. “We’re tough.” She had her hands on her hips and her chin jutted forward. Rivka thought she looked almost as tough as Black Widow.

  Paul patted her on the shoulder. “I know you are.”

  Sam unraveled the knots in his string and began retying them. “You’d better tell us because Cat won’t let you off the porch if you don’t.”

  Paul pulled off his cowboy hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “A friend of ours, a young man who swims with Madison, he ran into a bit of trouble in town last night.”

  “And . . .” Cat prodded.

  “He was jumped coming home from the pool. Got pretty messed up.”

  “He got beat up? Why?” Lauren asked in a worried voice.

  Paul let out another big sigh. “Elias is from Mexico. Seems like that might have had something to do with it.”

  Rivka stared at her hands, remembering the words White Power on the synagogue door, and then the flyer in the ice cream shop. It made her stomach hurt. Coming to Colorado was supposed to be different.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Rivka was still out of sorts after chore time.

  She and Sam had been assigned to pull weeds in the garden. He weeded on his knees with his nose inches from the plants, and he only pulled one kind of weed at a time before going back through the row removing a second kind of weed. All he said by way of explanation was, “Single search image maximizes efficiency,” and since Rivka had no idea what that meant, she focused on getting her row of tomatoes into tip-top shape.

  The mindless task left a little too much time for thinking.

  When all the chores were finished, no one could decide what to do.

  “Croquet is stupid,” Cat announced when Lauren suggested it. “And bourgeois,” she added, flopping into the hammock.

  “Bourgeois?” Sam challenged. “What does that even mean?”

  Lauren bit her lip. “She means I’m a snob.”

  He held out his piece of rope. “Wanna learn to tie some knots?”

  Lauren sniffed and went back to hunting through the shed of games.

  Rivka joined her. “How about corn hole?” she suggested, pulling out the slanted board with target holes in it.

  Lauren held out a racket. “Badminton?”

  Rivka and Lauren set up the badminton net on the grass in front of the bunkhouses.

  Cat micromanaged from the hammock. “That’s too slumpy. Tighten up the left side.” Lauren adjusted the stakes. “No, wait. That’s too much. Now it’s crooked.”

  Lauren’s hands balled into fists, and her face turned bright red. “Are you even going to play?” she snapped.

  Cat smirked at her. “Maybe.”

  “Frattleprat!” Lauren spat.

  Sam looked up from his knots. “What in the . . . ?”

  “Frattleprat?” Cat repeated, a look of disbelief on her face.

  Rivka could feel Lauren turn rigid.

  She kind of wanted to see her blow a gasket. Cat deserved it, but instead, Rivka put a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “Let it go. I’ll play with you.”

  Lauren’s nostrils pinched together as she sucked in a breath. “My parents don’t let me swear,” she said, holding her racket in a death grip.

  “Hey,” said Cat, jumping out of the hammock, completely oblivious to the fact that Lauren wanted to use her for a birdie. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  The others watched, open-mouthed, as Cat dragged the corn hole board to the far side of the net, grabbed a handful of beanbags, and returned to the hammock. Once she had got herself swinging, Cat began chucking the beanbags over the net toward the corn hole board. The first one was way off. The second fell short. The third smacked the board and slid through one of the holes.

  “Wa-hoo!” Cat shrieked. “Look at me go!”

  Pretty soon, they’d made up a bunch of rules and were all wrestling to get prime position in the hammock. They tossed beanbags and screamed “Frattleprat!” whenever they missed the target holes on the board. It was mayhem.

  Mayhem that ended when Madison got home from swimming laps at the public pool in town.

  When she parked the truck, they could tell that she’d been crying.

  Rivka, Cat, and Lauren followed her into the bunkhouse. When they asked her about Elias, all she would say was that it would be a long time before he would swim again. Then she went into her room and shut the door.

  The rest of the Antisocials read comic books until dinner. No one felt much like talking.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning, when they went to the barn to saddle the horses, they found Paul sleeping in a pile of hay next to Chickpea’s stall.

  “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” said Madison, nudging him awake.

  The bleary-eyed ranch manager mumbled into his sleeve and went back to snoring.

  Madison shook him again. “Paul, wake up.”

  “Chickpea?!” he said, sitting up.

  She shook her head. “Nothing yet.”

  He groaned.

  “Go get some sleep,” Madison told him. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Too tired to protest, Paul stumbled to the hammock and went back to sleep. Throughout riding lessons, either Madison or Fletch kept popping back into the barn to check on the horse. She was pacing more and seemed agitated. Everyone felt sure that the baby was coming soon. For the rest of the day, that was all anyone could talk about. What if the foal was born in the middle of the night? Would it be a filly or a colt? What would they name it?

  At dinnertime, Paul and Ma Etty made plates for themselves and ate in the barn.

  Sam was washing dishes, Cat was rinsing, and Rivka was drying when Paul charged through the front door.

  “It’s time,” he panted.

  Mr. Bridle carefully folded the newspaper he had been reading and stood while Paul did a nervous jig on the front mat. Mr. Bridle stood and patted Paul on the shoulder. “Easy there. Chickpea has done this before. She knows what to do.”

  Paul tugged on his mustache. “Can
you call Carla?”

  The old man nodded, and Paul sprinted back to the barn.

  Rivka stacked the last plate and hung up the dish towel.

  “Do we get to watch?” Cat asked, her hands on her hips.

  “If you want to,” Mr. Bridle said as he walked to the office.

  Cat gave an emphatic nod. “Cool.”

  “Will it be slimy?” Lauren asked.

  “If it’s anything like a human baby, it will be a total goo-fest,” said Cat.

  Rivka cocked her head. “Have you seen a baby being born?”

  Cat held up three fingers.

  “Seriously?” Rivka gaped at her.

  She made a face. “Unfortunately.”

  “How?” Rivka asked, remembering the other day when Cat had said she didn’t like babies, at least not human babies.

  Cat’s expression turned even more sour. She ticked the babies off her fingers like they were maladies. “My brother Jonas was born at home while I watched My Little Pony on cable. I was the only one with Mom in the hospital when my sister, Sloane, popped out. And best of all . . .” The scorn in her voice made Rivka wince. “Jack was born on a city bus. So when you ask about slime,” she said, turning to Lauren, “let me tell you, they won’t ever get that bus seat clean.”

  “Ew!” said Lauren and Rivka together.

  “Everybody ready for a horse birth?” said Mr. Bridle, returning from the office and clapping his hands expectantly.

  The girls exchanged glances. Lauren bit her lower lip and looked ready to bolt. Rivka was rethinking her plan too, but Sam swept past them.

  “Come on, you big wusses,” he said. “Pretend it’s a biology lesson.”

  Rivka fell in behind him, and the entire crew walked to the barn in the growing dusk. The sun had set behind the row of purple mountains, but the sky still glowed with evening light. The horses were being left out in the pasture tonight, partially because it was so warm and lovely, but also so that Chickpea could have the barn to herself. Rivka caught sight of Rowdy clustered with the others at the near end of the pasture. Someone had thrown them a few extra flakes of alfalfa. He seemed to be enjoying dessert.

  “Low voices. No quick movements,” Mr. Bridle reminded them as they slipped through the door of the barn.

  Chickpea was in the double-sized stall at the end of the barn. Paul and Ma Etty stood on hay bales on either side of the door and leaned against the walls of the stall, looking over. Silently, Ma Etty gestured to them, and Rivka and Cat climbed up next to her. The horse was standing in the middle of the stall with her legs splayed. Ma Etty had wrapped Chickpea’s tail so that the long pale hairs were out of the way. Chickpea’s head hung very low, and she swayed slightly.

  Rivka might be a beginner at speaking horse, but even she could tell that the horse was deeply focused and in pain. When she had imagined this moment, Rivka had pictured Ma Etty sitting near the horse’s head and talking to her. Maybe saying Breathe, breathe, push, like they do in the movies. But actually, she realized that Ma Etty was doing the best thing by letting Chickpea work through labor in her own way.

  A shudder went through the pregnant horse. Rivka winced. It was hard to watch her struggle like this. Chickpea circled the stall, plodding through the thick, fresh straw Paul had spread for her. She was panting and breathing hard. Her huge belly undulated.

  “Ugh. Creepy,” said Cat. “It’s like in Alien.”

  Rivka made a disgusted face. Noah had let her watch that movie last summer when their parents had gone out for the night. He got grounded for a week. She’d had nightmares for far longer.

  “How long does it usually take?” she whispered to Ma Etty.

  “Once things really get moving, not very long.”

  Chickpea’s wrapped tail lifted slightly. Underneath it, Rivka could see a bluish-white membrane, like a partially filled water balloon, emerging from what she could only guess was the birth canal.

  Lauren looked like she might pass out.

  Cat gave a low whistle. “What the heck?”

  “Amniotic sac,” Ma Etty whispered. “Watch for the forelegs next.”

  Rivka felt twitchy. The horse looked so unhappy, and it seemed impossible for a full-sized foal to come out of there. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

  Ma Etty leaned into her. “You okay?”

  “What if something goes wrong? Carla’s not here yet.”

  The old woman slung her arm around Rivka’s shoulder and squeezed. “It’s going to be okay. Chickpea hardly ever needs help when she foals, and besides, I’ve delivered a few in my time.”

  “You can help her?” Rivka pressed.

  “If she needs me, I can. And Paul and Mr. Bridle too. But look . . .”

  Two tiny hooves were visible in the milky sac.

  Chickpea circled again, huffed, and made a slow-motion fall to the ground.

  Rivka and Cat gasped. “Is she okay?” they said together.

  Ma Etty’s face was serious, but she nodded yes, never taking her eyes off of the horse’s rear end.

  Rivka clutched Ma Etty’s hand. “How do you know?” she asked. “How can you be sure?”

  The older woman tilted her chin toward the horse. With a grunt, Chickpea shifted her body, and the hooves emerged farther. Tucked in between the spindly little legs, Rivka could make out the rounded muzzle of the foal. She held her breath. All around her the others waited, frozen in place. Every eye was on the horse. Rivka wasn’t thinking about the slime or the grossness or anything except that teeny, tiny foal pushing its way into the world.

  With a violent thrashing of her legs in the straw, Chickpea pushed again, and the foal’s head and forelegs were out, clearly visible through the sac that still enclosed it.

  “It’s not moving,” Rivka stammered. “Why isn’t it moving?”

  Ma Etty patted her arm. “It’s okay. The foal is still attached to the placenta.”

  Rivka felt someone come up behind them.

  It was Carla. “How’s she doing?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “Really great,” said Ma Etty.

  Paul waved Carla over, and she squeezed onto the hay bale between him and Lauren. Rivka watched him slide an arm around her waist as she settled in to watch.

  Chickpea was breathing hard. Her sides heaved, and for a few minutes nothing happened. No one moved. Then once again, Chickpea’s flanks began to tremble, and her legs pawed at the straw. The horse gave one more huge push, and the rest of the foal emerged in a quivering mass of slime and membrane and pink-tinged fluid.

  Rivka exhaled loudly.

  The horse dropped her head on the straw and lay there, motionless.

  Carla stepped off the hay bale and entered the stall carefully. “There, there, Chickpea. Good girl. Good girl,” she murmured, running one hand softly down her length. With deft hands, she pulled the membrane away from the foal’s head. Carla stood back.

  The baby, a soft yellow like its mom, lifted its head.

  Chickpea lifted her head and looked back at it.

  Their noses twitched.

  Rivka thought she would explode with happiness.

  The still-wet baby was gawky and uncoordinated, but it untangled its legs and sat up. Chickpea stood and began to nudge the baby to its feet. The tiny creature struggled to coordinate all four legs, wobbling and tottering, while Chickpea nosed and licked her baby.

  It was the most miraculous thing Rivka had ever seen.

  A rushing sensation filled her. This was magic. Better than magic. Rivka was all sparkly inside. She didn’t mean to sing, but she couldn’t help it. The prayer began under her breath, but then the melody poured out—ancient and celebratory. Her voice rose into the final words—shehecheyanu vekiymanu vehigi’anu lazman hazeh.

  When the last note faded, everyone was staring at her.

  Paul let out a low whistle of appreciation.

  Carla’s face was alight.

  Ma Etty’s eyes twinkled.

  “That was beauti
ful,” said Mr. Bridle.

  “What does it mean?” asked Lauren.

  “It’s . . . um . . .” Suddenly Rivka was embarrassed. “It’s a Jewish prayer. You say it when you experience something amazing for the first time.”

  Mr. Bridle put his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you, Rivka. Thank you for singing.”

  Chickpea bent her body around the foal, and it began to nurse.

  For a long time they all watched the mother and baby.

  Finally, Carla roused herself. She gave Paul a hug. “I told you she would be fine. Shall we see who wins our little bet?”

  Paul waggled his mustache at her. “Colt,” he challenged.

  “We’ll see.”

  Carla and Ma Etty went in together. The older woman went straight to Chickpea, stroking her muzzle and talking to her quietly. The vet ran her hands over the foal. As soon as she was done, she gestured for Ma Etty, and they left the stall.

  “So?” Paul prompted.

  Carla gave him a mischievous grin. “Perfectly healthy . . . foal.”

  He groaned in mock despair. “You must be the world’s worst vet if you can’t even tell that it’s a—”

  She interrupted him. “Colt. It’s a colt.”

  “Ha! I told you so!”

  Carla laughed, and Ma Etty shook her head. “He’s incorrigible. What on earth did you bet, Carla?”

  “Loser buys dinner. So dumb.”

  Paul rubbed his stomach in an exaggerated circle. “I’m already hungry.”

  “It’s getting late, team,” said Mr. Bridle.

  Ma Etty peered at Mr. Bridle’s wrist to check his watch. “Almost ten,” she said, shooing Rivka and the other kids out of the barn. “Off to bed with you.”

  “What about the baby?” Rivka asked. “Who’s keeping an eye on him?”

  Ma Etty glanced over her shoulder. Paul and Carla were sitting close to one another on the hay bale by Chickpea’s stall. “Looks like the nighttime watch is in place. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Rivka yawned and followed Lauren and Madison to the bunkhouse.

  Their boots crunched on gravel. Somewhere down the creek, an owl broke into a raucous tremolo. The frogs in the pasture pond chirruped and sang. After the others had gone inside, Rivka paused on the porch and looked up at the sky and felt like she might drift up into the darkness, where it was nothing but stars upon stars. Her heart pulsed in time with them. Remembering the little colt’s velvet nose and his big eyes and his mother’s tender care, she felt dizzy. It was almost like she could feel the galaxy spinning.