The three people in her lesson had much in common but they stood in silence, not speaking to one another. Would anyone notice if Myra escaped out the back door of the barn?
“Hey,” Kate said, appearing by her side and dashing Myra’s plan to run away. Kate nudged her with an elbow. “You’ll be great. You’ve taught plenty of lessons before, and once you get started you’ll see that this one isn’t any different.”
Myra didn’t quite believe her, but she stepped forward anyway. She cleared her throat to get the attention of her students and inhaled sharply when Ainslee turned and looked at her.
Myra slowly exhaled. She had expected Ainslee to appear older than in her picture after all she had been through, but there was something young and vulnerable in her expression that hadn’t been in the photo. No smile this time, and her skin was paler, but the faint laugh lines near her eyes and curving to the corners of her lips were evidence of a lost propensity to an easy grin.
“Welcome to Cedar Grove. I’m Myra and I’ll be your instructor for the next eight weeks. Do any of you have experience with horses?” Three brief and silent head shakes were her answer. Myra was relieved since they could all start from scratch. She tried to ignore her awareness of Ainslee while she talked—disconcerted when her body’s response to the actual woman was even stronger than to her picture—and concentrated instead on the information she needed to share and on a cursory appraisal of the three students. Blake was tall and slender, focused slightly to the left of Myra’s face, never holding direct eye contact. Drew, on the other hand, met her gaze with an almost belligerent expression, as if daring her to challenge him somehow. He still had the muscular build of someone who had spent hours a day in a gym, but Myra knew his injury would have severely curtailed his workouts. All three were wearing long pants and heeled, tread-less boots. The right leg of Ainslee’s jeans was cut off at the knee, and the metal of her curved prosthesis was as shiny as the brand-new looking cowboy boot on her left foot.
“I see all of you are wearing the appropriate clothes,” Myra continued. “We’ll provide safety helmets, and that’s our first rule. No riding without one. Rule Two: until you get familiar with our horses and we get to know you, no one is allowed to ride or enter a horse’s stall without permission and supervision. Three: ask for help if you need it. I know you’re accustomed to being in control, but allow yourselves to be beginners here. Finally, Rule Four, keep your anger and frustration out of the barn and away from the animals. If you need to blow off some steam, do it outside. Any questions so far?”
At this point in her lessons, new students would either be excitedly clamoring for attention as they threw question after question at her, or they’d be nervous and silent. This group was simply quiet, expressionless. Myra felt an urge to apologize for giving them rules as if they were children, but she didn’t. She had learned from her first days working with Kate that the riders often craved structure and guidelines. The framework gave them a sense of security in a new and sometimes frightening situation. These three riders, although they had the outward appearance of confidence and calm, were probably feeling some trepidation—invisible as it was—about riding for the first time, especially with physical and psychological limitations that were still foreign to them.
“Today we’re going to learn how to groom and tack the horses.” Myra talked as she led the group toward the crossties. Their silence was still unnerving, but Kate had been correct—once Myra had started the lesson, the familiarity of the words comforted her. She seemed hyperaware of the uneven sound of Ainslee’s gait on the cement floor of the aisle, but she knew she’d survive the lesson. Jeffrey was always present in her mind, and Ainslee had insinuated herself there as well, but Myra would survive. She’d manage to keep the threats to her emotions at bay as long as she kept most of herself in teaching mode. “We’ll start the actual riding next week, and you’ll have the same horse throughout the entire eight-week session.”
Myra stopped when they were close to the horses. She had already decided which human to pair with which horse, and her quick evaluation when she first saw the students confirmed her original choices. She felt the weight of this responsibility almost more than any other she’d face while teaching this group. The success or failure of the program might depend on her ability to connect the right horse to each rider since the bond they’d form with their new partners would be such an important factor in their healing and their engagement with riding. If her judgment was off…She took a deep breath and gestured at a dozing pinto. “Drew, you’ll be paired with Spot.”
Spot wasn’t the prettiest horse, but he was solid and reliable and would be the safest mount for Drew, with his back injuries. Myra paused for a moment, expecting the dark and brooding Drew to say something derogatory about the horse, but he just shrugged slightly, tightened his grip on his crutches, and limped over to Spot.
“Blake, you and Frosty will be partners. Ainslee”—Myra paused as even the act of saying Ainslee’s name for the first time seemed too intimate—“you’re with Deacon.”
Once the three were standing in their places next to the horses, Myra gave a quick demonstration of the various grooming tools. She kept it short because she wanted them to get in contact with the horses as soon as possible. During the riding sessions, she’d have volunteers leading the horses and supporting the riders, but today she would be on her own.
“We’ll start with the rubber currycomb to loosen mud and dirt on the horse’s body. Use this in a circular motion, but only on the muscular parts of the horse, not on their legs or face.” Myra curried Spot’s shoulder while she explained what she was doing. “Go ahead and try this yourselves.”
Myra handed the currycomb to Drew, and he and the other two wordlessly began to imitate her actions. Myra blinked back unexpected tears as she remembered seeing the same passivity in Jeffrey the last time she had brought him to visit Dragon after he had come home. She had to break through, somehow.
“Why don’t you keep just one crutch while you’re grooming,” she said after watching Drew work for a few minutes. “You can rest your free hand on Spot’s neck for balance.”
“Okay.” He handed her the metal crutch and she leaned it against the wall, near enough for him to reach if he needed it.
“Better?” she asked.
He shuffled several steps, keeping his hand braced on Spot’s sturdy neck, and began grooming the horse’s back. “Much. Maybe someday I can get rid of both the damned things.”
His voice was toneless, but Myra felt his frustration. She herself felt a wave of relief that he had acknowledged his situation. Would Jeffrey have been as communicative if she had spent more time with him? Or asked the right questions?
She couldn’t keep second-guessing herself. She and her parents had tried everything they could think of to help Jeffrey. It hadn’t been enough.
“Riding is an excellent way to work your core and spinal muscles,” she said. Focus on the facts, not the emotions. Heal the physical, and hopefully the emotional will follow. “I’ll bet you notice a marked improvement in your range of motion and strength by the end of the eight weeks.”
He gave another noncommittal shrug. Skeptical? Or afraid to hope? Myra patted Spot on the shoulder and went to check on Blake and Frosty. She had paired them because the mare was a good physical match for Blake’s height and slim build, but she had also thought they might fit well in other ways, too. Blake was healthy and would probably progress quickly. Frosty was well-behaved, but she had a stubborn and spirited streak that made her more suitable for advanced riders. Maybe the movement and freedom he’d experience while riding would help dissipate the aura of tension Myra felt when she got close to him. Yet another reminder of Jeffrey. He had been outwardly placid and detached, but an agitated energy had practically rippled the air around him.
“You seem very comfortable around her,” Myra said, after watching Blake confidently sweep a stiff-bristled brush over the mare’s coat. She was shedding the
last of her winter fur and gray hairs already covered Blake’s jeans and dark polo shirt. “Have you ridden before?”
“Once or twice on family vacations,” he said, not looking at her but instead staring at the horse as if grooming her was a vital mission. His brush strokes got more determined. “My daughter loves horses.”
Myra remembered his file. A son and daughter, ages six and eight. He was currently separated from them and his young wife while he went through class after class in anger management. Myra thought some good gallops along the trails behind Kate’s barn would do more to help than all the therapy, and she hoped he’d stick with the program long enough to try out her theory.
“After a few weeks, we’ll schedule some times when you can bring your family to the barn. By then you’ll be able to show your daughter how to groom and ride Frosty.” Something positive to offer them, instead of pain.
Blake paused with his arm in midstroke. “I’d like that,” he said, resuming his resolute grooming.
Myra turned finally toward Ainslee. She had been avoiding personal contact because she wasn’t certain how to handle her obvious interest. She had been hoping to get through the lesson with minimal resurfacing of sad memories—and that hadn’t worked—but now she was drawn to one of her students. Ainslee was beautiful, and based on Myra’s reading of her file, she had intelligence and integrity. In a normal situation, Myra wouldn’t have fought her attraction, but Ainslee came with more tangled strings than a game of cat’s cradle. She had been having trouble coping with her injury, and the subsequent problems were more than Myra was willing to handle. Ainslee had abandoned every attempt to help her—from physical therapy to a variety of counseling methods. Myra worried she’d quit this program, too, before the horses had a chance to break her out of her protective shell. So many professionals had tried to help Ainslee—what could Myra hope to do? Get close enough so she’d be destroyed if Ainslee decided to take the way out that Jeffrey had chosen? Not a chance.
Ainslee was standing as far from Deacon as she could, reaching out so the currycomb barely skimmed his body. Deacon’s dark, liver-chestnut coat was flecked with gray, but he had the proud, arched neck typical in a Morgan, and a proud spirit to match. Myra had picked him for Ainslee the moment she saw her picture.
“He likes to be scratched here,” Myra said. She lifted Deacon’s heavy mane and found an itchy spot along the crest of his neck, near his withers. She held his mane out of the way and Ainslee tentatively used her currycomb on his neck. “Use a firmer motion,” Myra suggested. “You don’t have to be afraid of hurting him.”
Ainslee had to step closer to follow Myra’s suggestion, and Myra had a feeling that any fear Ainslee had was self-directed. She kept her body positioned so her right leg was farthest from the horse, and she seemed ready to jump to safety if necessary. She increased the pressure with her brush, however, and Deacon responded by curving his neck toward her and curling his upper lip in pleasure.
Ainslee laughed, and Myra realized it was the first sound she’d heard from her. A brief but musical glimpse of the vivacious person she used to be. The humor and joy were still there, however deeply buried.
“He likes it,” Ainslee said. Her voice was huskier than Myra had expected, a contrast to the facial expressions that fleetingly altered her mouth and eyes before disappearing and leaving her with a calm mask again.
“Yes. If you watch his ears and posture, you’ll be able to recognize when he’s nervous or relaxed or interested. See his left ear, how it’s tipped toward you? He’s paying attention to you and most likely hoping you’ll scratch him some more.”
Myra stepped back and watched Ainslee’s stance change slightly. She was still protecting her right side, but she was now paying attention to her horse, not just herself. One short laugh and three tiny words from Ainslee, and Myra found her even more appealing than before. She walked back to Drew for another round with each of her riders, even though she wanted to stagger into the barn’s lounge and lie on the comfy old sofa. She hadn’t done more than give a few instructions and carry on short conversations, but she felt a heavy weariness settle on her neck and shoulders. She had known them for only an hour, but she already cared about these people. She had been fooling herself to think she could escape from these sessions with her heart unscathed. Or shattered completely, she added, as she looked back at Ainslee.
Chapter Three
Two weeks later, Myra hoisted a sixty-pound bag of grain over her shoulder and carried it toward the feed room. The first four bags had been relatively easy to carry, but she was sagging under the weight of this one and they still had a dozen left before the truck was empty. She shifted to find a more comfortable position, and her muscles protested the extra movement. The summer day was mild, typical of an Oregon June, and she was dressed lightly in jeans and a red cotton tank, but she already felt a trickle of sweat between her breasts and down her spine.
Myra had spent most of her free time riding and working at barns, and she always reminded herself that the bright side of hauling bales of hay, bags of feed, and heavy wooden jumps meant she didn’t need to waste any time at the gym. Her hobby gave her plenty of exercise and kept her body in great shape. She felt her biceps flex as she repositioned the shifting bag. More muscle than your average woman, perhaps, but Myra liked the confidence her strength gave her. Today, however, with the stress of teaching harried teenagers during the last weeks of high school and working with her military students here at the barn, Myra felt depleted. She needed to find some way to energize herself again, before the three soldiers arrived for their lesson. Last week’s lesson had rushed by, as usual for the first time her students got to mount their horses. By the time they’d learned how to mount, had gotten their stirrups adjusted, and had been instructed in the basics of stop-go-steer, the lesson had been nearly over. Myra had been happy when the two hours rushed by with little time for any personal interaction. Now when she passed Kate—who was on a return trip to the full pickup truck—in the doorway, they playfully jostled each other as each tried to get through the door first.
“Ouch! My shoulder!” Myra winced when Kate was about to push past her, and then sped through the opening as Kate hesitated with a look of concern on her face. “Ha! You are too easy.”
“I’ll get you next time,” Kate said, sprinting toward the truck.
Myra hurried to drop the bag of grain on the ground next to the feed bin and jog back to the door. She had deliberately provoked Kate’s competitive side, and she wanted to keep her split-second time advantage. Turning the unloading process into a game would make it more strenuous, but also more fun. Myra would be even happier if she beat Kate through the door every time.
She saw Kate’s shadow and rushed to cross the threshold first. She braced her hands on either side of the door to keep from propelling herself into a collision with Kate. “I win again,” she said. Her laughter ended with a sharp exhale when she realized she was face-to-face with Ainslee instead of Kate. Ainslee, visibly startled by Myra’s sudden appearance, stepped back too quickly onto her right foot and lost her balance. Myra reflexively reached out and steadied her.
“Sorry about that. Are you hurt?” Myra felt as if a current passed between her and Ainslee where their skin was in contact, vibrations of the unreadable emotions behind the frown on Ainslee’s face. Myra wanted to let go, to regain her own equilibrium after the simple, yet intimate connection, but she kept her hand around Ainslee’s upper arm until she was certain she wasn’t going to fall. She still seemed uncertain on her prosthesis, even when walking a straight line, let alone during such an abrupt change of direction.
“I’m fine.” Ainslee shrugged away from Myra’s touch. “I saw you come in here and I…you said I should use a different saddle this week.”
“Right.” Myra motioned for Ainslee to follow her. She went into the adjoining tack room, walking slowly for Ainslee’s benefit.
“You don’t need to crawl.”
“This i
s my normal—” Myra turned and saw a scowl on Ainslee’s face. The same expression she had used during the entire lesson last week when the students rode for the first time. Ainslee had just witnessed her rapid exit from the feed room, so Myra’s false protests were meaningless. If she were in Ainslee’s position, she’d want to be treated as a capable adult, not a baby. “You have good mobility and don’t need to be coddled. I apologize.”
“Well. Okay, then,” Ainslee said. She seemed flustered by Myra’s words, as if she’d been hoping for a fight and hadn’t been expecting Myra to yield. She seemed more irritated by Myra’s acquiescence than she had been by her condescendingly slow walk.
Myra stepped back when she felt a sudden urge to hold Ainslee, to ease the raw emotions she saw on Ainslee’s face. She resisted the desire, partly because she needed to keep her distance, but mostly because she knew Ainslee would reject any sign of compassion or pity. Myra guessed that Ainslee’s family and friends had tried to comfort her the same way Myra wanted to, but the gesture was one they needed, not what was best for Ainslee.
What she and Ainslee both needed was distance and detachment. Myra walked quickly over to one of the tack lockers and slid a heavy black saddle off the rack.
“This is my dressage saddle. It has a deep seat, but it still allows you to feel contact with your horse. I think it will fit you better than the Western one you used last week.”
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