Chloe stood back and watched them circle the arena. If you were a doctor, sometimes you got to walk into the waiting room and tell the people, yes, she’s going to make it, and if you were a teacher, maybe there were times you saw the concepts sink into the gray matter, but a riding instructor only had moments such as this one, where desire to master overcame fear, and she savored it.
“I’ll never ever walk straight again,” Kit moaned as they shut Elmer into the geezer pasture. He stepped lively on the walk back, smelling the cubes of alfalfa awaiting him and hearing his buddies call out greetings.
“Soak in your dad’s hot tub when you get home. You’ll feel it a little tomorrow, so that’s why you have to ride again on Thursday.”
“No way. Look at my legs. They’re already starting to bruise. I wonder if this could get me excused from P.E.? You think? We’re starting soccer. I fucking hate chasing a ball around on the grass and not being able to use my hands. How senile. I wonder who thought that little game up?”
“Brazilians?”
Kit waved her off. “Oh, who cares. I hate all school, really, just P.E. more than most. It is to die, Chloe, when you’re a new kid, not to mention a whale.”
“Don’t talk like that about yourself.”
“Why not? It’s true. Hey, how do you know my dad has a hot tub?”
“He invited me over once.”
Kit’s green eyes gleamed. “Were you guys like, you know, dating?”
“Give me a break. He was having trouble with the filter and asked if I would take a look at it.”
Kit stepped aside to let the stable goat pass. “How cute. Does he bite?”
“She. And yes.”
“How come you know about stuff like that?”
Chloe smiled. “Sexing goats? It’s not difficult.”
“Ick. Pipes and drains, you know what I mean. I thought that was the main reason to get a boyfriend. To keep from having to snake hair out of clogged sinks and overflowing toilets by yourself.”
Chloe and Kit pressed themselves to the pipe stalls in the breezeway to let a truck pass through. It was dusk now, darkness settling in down low to the ground like tule fog. Bright yellow light fractured the dark in places where the stable lights weren’t burned out, casting impossibly huge shadows of horseflesh against the metal barn. She knew the silver Ford F-350 well enough by its dents. One in the right rear panel had been put there by her own horse, when Gabe made the mistake of trying to float Absalom’s teeth without tranquilizing him first. He never had body work done, just turned the truck in every two years and let it get beat up all over again. It was past suppertime, but a vet’s hours never ended.
“News flash, Kit. Having a penis doesn’t automatically earn you a degree in plumbing. My foster dad showed me the basics. Handy stuff, it stuck with me, that’s all.”
“So if you choose a boyfriend, you can kind of eliminate that requirement?”
“Something like that. Let’s go polish up your tack.”
“It’s so sad.”
“My tack? I beg your pardon.”
“That you never got adopted.”
“Past history. Don’t worry about it.”
“My stomach’s growling. Why can’t we get something to eat first?”
“Because you take care of your tack first. If you don’t, you’ll forget about doing it later, and when you need it most, it’ll fail you.”
“Well, that’s boring.”
“No, it’s responsible. Besides, the only food to eat around here is hay cubes and Cokes. You can wait a little while. Your dad will be along here any minute to whisk you off to a real supper.”
“Right.” Kit toed the mud. “If he remembers.”
“He won’t forget.”
Kit pointed to Gabe’s truck. The driver’s door was open, the interior light shining down on his face. “Do you know that guy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, look at him. He is a fox. A major fox.”
“And old enough to be your grandfather.”
“Still.”
“Forget it.” Chloe switched on the porch light outside the barn office and filled a bucket with water from the hose coiled near the steps. The icy chill splashed her hands, and she shivered. She unlocked the storeroom that abutted the office and gathered supplies. “Here’s the sponge and there’s the soap, Kit. Have at it.”
Kit took one last look at Gabe, sighed, and set to work, rubbing the skinny slab of Fiebing’s like a fiend. Her father’s lumpy army-green down jacket made her look like a kosher dill; she’d work up a serious heat if she kept the pace up. Maybe the down would act like a sauna, sweat a few pounds from her. Chloe had hopes that the riding would take hold of her, urge her away from the comfort of food. Kit’s red ponytail was tousled, and she reached up to brush stray hairs from her face. Despite the neon green bow and the tough talk, the reaction to Gabe’s drop-dead good looks, Kit was still standing on the edge of childhood, looking across the chasm, not quite ready to cross over.
They worked together in the quiet, the soft whooshing of the sponges darkening the leather. The familiar feel of the well-used tack beneath her fingers was as unconscious to Chloe as if she were a master knitter working on an afghan. She knew every spot where she’d stitched up tears, every bridle she’d managed to buy back when she’d sold the lot after Fats died. She took a can of Brasso down from the storeroom shelf and polished the nickel bit, not because it needed it, really, but she wanted Kit to see that she also took care of these things. Thirty feet away, Gabe Hubbard stood by his truck, a trouble light fixed on a chestnut Arab gelding who’d evidently gotten himself torn up good in some barbed wire. She kept her eye on him while Kit chattered. Nobody could stitch like Gabe. Every now and again, the light caught the arced needle and it flashed like a firefly.
“Tell me about your mom,” Chloe said.
Kit sighed dramatically. “Wilhelmina Premabodhi Wedler. What’s to tell? She changed her name from Lucille so many times I forgot what to call her. She told my dad she was tired of sounding like a Chuck Berry song, whoever that is. Premabodhi is Indian for the guru’s head chick, or something equally gross. Now she lives at the commune, wearing robes and shit, lighting incense and praying to a million Indian gods I never even knew there were. Supposedly she wants to become an acupuncturist, but she used to groom dogs and work as a cashier in the Albertson’s. I used to love to go shopping with my dad and see her there in her red uniform. She’d smile at the customers, and bring us day-old stuff from the bakery. I thought someday I might get a job there and work with her, you know, like a team, but everything changed.”
Kit’s face screwed up hard, lower lip caught between her teeth. Chloe stilled her polishing rag and set the bit down on a picnic table. “You’re an interesting person, Kit. And you’ve got potential as a rider.”
“I do?”
“That’s what I said.”
The face relaxed, then grew cautious. “Like potential the way some totally handicapped case has potential? That kind of interesting, huh?”
Gabe was leaning inside the driver’s door of his truck now, writing up the bill, probably adding in at least fifty for the late call, Chloe would bet money. “Hardly. For example, you’re the only thirteen-year-old redhead I know with jet black pubic hair.”
Kit laughed. “Not to mention entire pelvic region! God, think we could sue Lady Clairol for failing to mention that?”
“The box said it would wear off in six weeks.”
“Six weeks! Six weeks is for-fucking-ever!”
“I realize that,” Chloe said. “You don’t have to cuss.”
Chloe watched Gabe Hubbard send the bewildered owner of the repaired gelding off with his considerably lighter checkbook. He turned and started toward her and Kit—probably he’d been watching them the whole time. They were sitting close together on the arena railing, sharing a Diet Coke, waiting for Rich to arrive. So far, he was forty-five minutes late.
Gabe hooked one boo
theel over the lowermost rung of the fence. “Got some bute in the truck. I figure you’re just about out of the last batch.”
He looked at her soberly, the old lonely soldier routine. Cynthia was probably on a ski trip in Aspen with friends, and he was feeling abandoned. Christ. So he sees me and thinks I’ll do for the night, that old song. Well, I’m not going to follow the bouncing ball. Chloe shook her head. “Dr. Hubbard, meet Katherine Wedler, Kit, as she prefers to be called. She took her first riding lesson today, on Elmer. Got him to lope.”
“Whoa,” he said, extending a hand. “You’re home free if you can get that animal to engage all four legs at the same time. Nice to meet you, Kit. Mind if I borrow Chloe for a while?”
“Chloe minds.”
“Come on,” he wheedled. “Be nice. Here I was going to offer to take a look at Ab’s legs for free, and you’re biting my head off.”
“For free?” Chloe slid down off the fence. “Remember, I have a witness.”
They walked up the hill to the pipe stalls, Gabe on the left, Kit in the middle, Chloe keeping to the outside.
“Thought you might like to know that Phil Green’s colt is coming along. Strong-willed little monster. Legs are shaping up.”
“A baby?” Kit squealed. “Can we go see it?”
“That’s great for Phil, but I don’t really care to hear about it, thanks,” Chloe said. She undid the latch of stall seventy-two. In the dark, Absalom’s eyes glittered with fear. “Here, now,” she said softly, pressing a hand to his muscled throat. She blew softly into his nostril and he quieted. She snapped a lead rope onto his breakaway halter. “Good boy. I promise, no shots.”
Gabe pulled his truck up and switched the trouble light back on. While Chloe held on to the rope and muttered quietly to the horse, Gabe ran his hands down the horse’s forelegs. “How did he fare on the three-times-a-day routine?”
She shrugged. “A little better, I think.”
“Bute’s hard stuff. He can’t stay on it forever.”
“Stay on what?” Kit asked. “Is this your horse? Is he sick? God, he’s as big as Black Beauty. Is he a stallion?”
Chloe didn’t answer.
Gabe went to his truck again and returned with an amber jar, which he pressed into Chloe’s free hand. “Bear in mind all we’re doing here is buying time until you make a decision you can live with. Time might run out before you do.”
“Goddammit, I know that, Gabriel.”
“Gabriel,” Kit said. “Is that your full name? Did you know there was an angel named Gabriel? I learned it in Catechism. My mom was Catholic for about three months one time.”
“No kidding.” Gabe looked evenly at Chloe, and she stared right back. He got into his truck and pulled the door shut. “Don’t forget, Chloe.”
“Jesus,” she said. “How could I?”
Gabe drove out of the pipe stalls and circled around to the main road toward the highway. Rich Wedler honked from his low-slung Triumph as he passed the outgoing truck. January be damned, he had the top down, the tape player cranked up, the Byrds playing “I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better.” When the truck sped past, spraying his car with mud, he gave it the finger.
“That’s my dad,” Kit said. “Mr. Congeniality. Well, at least he finally remembered. Are you really going to make me ride on Thursday? What time?”
“I don’t know.” Chloe bent her wrist to check her watch. It was eight-fifteen. Eight-fifteen. Why did the time nag at her? “Oh, my God!” She unsnapped the lead rope and coiled it over her arm. “Kit, I have to go.”
“Where? Don’t you want to go out to eat with me and my dad?”
“Can’t. I was supposed to meet someone at seven.”
She sped through the canyon, tires screaming on the slick asphalt. What if he’d gotten tired of waiting at the crossroads, gone in and met up with Hugh? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Hugh would give her hell, maybe even ask her to leave. It had been foolish to say yes in the first place. There were no cars on the gravel road as she jockeyed the transmission to make the steep grade into the box canyon. Oh, hell, why hurry? He had probably given up after the third dirt road, desperate for a streetlight. She slowed down, made the last turn possible before the road became impassable, thanks to the last rain. Here was a car, though, an old Honda, right front wheel stuck deep in a rut that had evolved out of the last storm. She braked and cut her engine, got out, and buttoned her jacket up to her neck. Cold tonight—the temperature must have been down to forty. She could see her breath in the night air, and the tips of her ears stung. Rich was crazy to ride with the top down. He’d get pneumonia or worse. She looked around. Nobody here. Then, faintly, she heard Hannah barking and took off in that direction in a slow run; it wouldn’t do to break her ankle over a treed raccoon. Branches flew by her. What in Christ had she treed? God, she hoped it wasn’t a mountain lion. They didn’t usually come out this far, but she’d seen them on the ridge, mornings, and noticed their tracks near the creek where they came down to drink. Maybe Hannah had wounded something. Might have to go for Francisco’s shotgun. She pursed her lips and forced a whistle.
The white dog gave it up and bounded to Chloe, rubbing her back up under the outstretched hand. “What are you up to?” Chloe whispered and squinted up into the trees, into the V of branches. “Oh, Hannah, Hannah. Bad dog.” The sight wasn’t funny, but she had to pinch her cheeks to keep from laughing.
It was that biscuits-and-gravy, papaya-juice, forty-four-dollar-tip, want-my-shirt-back-tonight professor from the college. It was him, all right. Here for their date, wedged high into the oak branches. The car had no doubt gotten stuck, and he’d grown tired of waiting, thought he’d walk a few yards to find her in a cozy cabin, kettle of tea simmering on a pot-bellied stove. Someplace to warm his hands. Well, surprise. He was beyond shivering, the cold racked him in great shudders, and his face—a white mask in the darkness—looked angry enough to spit tent pegs.
Chloe took hold of Hannah’s collar. Now that her mistress was home, Hannah’s enthusiasm for the stranger dwindled. She licked Chloe’s hands before Chloe pushed her away with a stern command, “Stay.” Hannah sat down.
“You left out the part about the dog, didn’t you? What in God’s name is she, half wolf?” His voice shook. “You going to chain her up or just let me die of frostbite?”
“It’s all right. I have her now. You can come on down.”
CHAPTER
10
Sorry about the tree business. Hannah doesn’t take to strangers.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.” Hank let go the last branch and sat down hard in the damp humus. Assorted sharp sticks and stones poked at his backside, but he was so cold and numb that the pain hardly registered. Good old terra firma after a miserable near hour: he could have made courtly love to the ground, he was so grateful to be on it and still retain ownership of his testicles. He massaged his ankles with fingers that felt like blocks of wood, trying to urge the blood back into the needles-and-pins flesh.
“You should have stayed in your car. I told you to.”
“I was afraid it was going to sink in the mud. And you know what? It did.” He stared at this woman he’d been so intrigued with at breakfast. Muddy boots, heavy denim jacket, and snarling beast at her side. Premature senility, that’s what it was, just like his Uncle Robert, who had to be institutionalized at fifty. “You didn’t tell me I was going to have to earn a merit badge finding your house.”
“You didn’t ask.”
He shuddered with cold. “Can we go inside, just until I get warm?”
“Sure.” She smiled and bent down to let the dog lick her face. He despised it when people did that. The teeth on that animal were designed specifically for tearing. It was a wild place out here. God knew what the hound had hunted down and mangled for the sport of it. Undoubtedly, she allowed the feral creature to sleep in her bed as well. This was not an attractive woman. This was brief infatuation riding the spongy tissue of the penis.<
br />
Another chill jolted his frame. Chloe reached out and took his hand, rubbing it between her palms. She blew warm breath into his trapped digits, choked off a laugh.
“You find this amusing?”
“You have to admit, it looked damn funny. Hannah had you treed like a possum.”
He snatched his hand away from her and jammed it into his pocket. Disturbingly, it now felt much warmer than the other one. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to call a towing service. I have classes to teach in the morning.”
“I don’t have a phone,” she told him. “But I can make you some cocoa to warm you up, then drive you the half-mile to the phone, if you like.”
He clasped the two halves of his torn sweater together.
“Would it make you stop glaring at me if I told you that I have a tow hitch on my truck? We can get your car out.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”
Hannah sniffed his pants leg. “She knows you now,” Chloe said. “I’m going to let her go.”
She released the dog, and the white shape bolted away from them through the dark. They followed her until they came to a—what the hell would you call it?—a cabin?—a shack? It wasn’t a conventional house, more like a large shed you might store equipment in. It had a plywood/cedar motif, all twenty by twenty-four or so feet of it, somewhat patchwork in approach, including an old billboard advertising Stroud Ranch Homes, but it looked sturdy enough. A metal chimney rose through the slightly hipped roof, and there was a screen to catch any stray sparks—had it been lit, of course. It wasn’t.
“This is your place?”
“I know it wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but I was watertight the last three storms, which is more than I can say for half the new homes around here.”
“True,” Hank conceded. All that stuff in the newspaper about the million-dollar homes sliding down toward Pacific Coast Highway had made the front page for close to a week. “Who built it?” he asked.
She stopped short. “Some guys I know. Why?”
“Just curious.”
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