“I think he was just looking for a friend—a platonic relationship,” Maggie said, straight faced.
“Yeah, like what Anthony wanted with Cleopatra.” Jackie rolled her eyes. “I gotta work some kinks out of Romeo here. See you later on, OK?” Jackie recapped the ointment, wiped her fingers on her jeans, and tossed the jar to Maggie. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said seriously.
Maggie watched her friend pick her way through the trucks and trailers. She put the Vicks back in her tack compartment and began the walk to where contestants were exercising their horses, throwing away her empty coffee cup on her way.
The activity, the horses, the people, the creak of leather, even the patina of anticipatory, pre-event tension, wrapped around Maggie like an old and familiar winter coat on a very cold day. The difference was that Rich wasn’t there, grinning, gabbing with friends, sneaking bits of apples to horses.
She took a deep breath, trying to chase away her thoughts.
“Yo, Maggie. Good to see you,” a woman on a loud-colored Appaloosa said as she jogged by. Maggie smiled and waved, unsure who the rider was.
I shouldn’t be here. It’s not right. Even with Tessa and how important this is to her, I shouldn’t have come. How can I stay here all the hours I need to? A moment ago, it was all feeling good. Now, I’m as alone as I’d be if the fairgrounds were closed and the day over and everyone else long gone.
Her mind replayed a scene from a couple of days ago, and the memory seemed to increase the weight she felt in her heart.
Danny had brought his check for Dakota’s board and a couple of protein supplements for Dusty to Maggie two days ago. They’d sat at the kitchen table.
“We haven’t talked much lately,” Danny said.
“Well... I’ve been very—”
“Busy.” Danny finished the excuse for her. “I know.” He sighed. “Sometimes I suppose it’s a good thing to keep your feelings a secret, but I’m not good at that. That day I saw your truck start into the driveway and then leave in a big hurry told me something, Maggie. I’ve thought about it—about you driving off to avoid me—and I’m awfully sorry you had to do that. It’s not at all fair to you. Maybe I was being overbearing. I didn’t mean to be, but maybe I was.” He took a breath and held it for a moment. “I’m not much of an actor, Maggie. I have strong feelings for you. I guess maybe you know that.”
Maggie nodded her head slightly without speaking.
Danny cleared his throat. “I can find another place to board Dakota. I’ll leave you alone. What I’d like to do is to make your life better, rather than—”
Maggie’s hand reached out and covered Danny’s without a thought, without her direction. “No, Danny! I don’t want you to go away at all.”
Their eyes met for a long moment. Danny’s voice was heavy with emotion as he spoke. “Then I won’t, Maggie. I’ll be here for you. And I’ll hope and pray that when the time’s right, you’ll feel about me as I do about you.”
Maggie was acutely aware of the sensation of her hand over Danny’s—the hardness of it, the rough texture of the flesh, the mounds of his knuckles.
“You have to understand who comes first in my heart, Danny—and that my mind, my life, has turned to... to... some kind of venomous thing that hates itself so much because it’s so alone.” Tears came, and Maggie freed her hand and pushed back her chair; the screech of wood against tile was louder than a fire siren in the kitchen and the quiet afternoon.
Danny stood, reached over the table, and used a finger to wipe a tear from Maggie’s face. “You’re not alone,” he whispered. Then he turned and walked to the door. In half a minute, Maggie heard him start the engine of his GMC and roll down the driveway.
I didn’t offer anything beyond friendship. Not a thing. But when I was holding his hand...
The irritating bleep of a horn directly behind her caused Maggie to turn quickly and return to the present.
“Where should I park?” Ian Lane called to her from his little red car. “I’m afraid that all these trucks will gang up on me if I stop moving.”
Maggie’s mood shifted as soon as she saw Ian’s face. “Put it over by my truck,” she said. “Tuck it in close to the side, and don’t block the back end of the trailer.”
“Sure. I’d be glad to. There’s only seven thousand trucks and trailers here. I’m sure I can find yours before the day’s over.”
Maggie smiled at Ian’s frustration. “Is the good reverend using sarcasm? I’m shocked.”
“I’ll buy you a coffee if you lead me to your truck. How’s that?”
“Excellent.” Maggie turned around and retraced her path, listening to Ian’s compact car bottoming out as it bashed its way behind her. She stopped a few yards from her rig and motioned Ian to it. He snugged his car next to her truck, released his seat belt, and stepped out. He stood still for a moment and then walked toward her, his gait strangely crablike, as if he were stepping on hot coals. Her eyes dropped to his feet.
“Wow. Great boots, Ian.”
“They ought to be. I paid a bushel basket of money for them. They felt great at the store in Coldwater, but now they’re killing me.”
“What kind are they?”
“Justins, which are supposed to be good boots, no?”
“Yeah, but what kind of socks are you wearing?”
“Socks? Just regular athletic socks, I guess. Nobody said anything about socks when I bought the boots.”
Maggie bit back laughter. “Have you worn boots before, Ian?”
“Only the galoshes my mom used to buckle for me when I was in grade school.” He stood in place, looking like a scolded puppy. “These things hurt, Maggie. I mean it.”
“Of course they do—they’re brand new. You need to wear slippery socks—silk or whatever—for the first few times. And you need to dust the insides of the boots with baby powder before you haul them on. Good boots will shape themselves to your feet, but with thick socks and no baby powder, all you’re going to do is raise blisters and cause yourself grief.”
“Swell,” Ian grumbled. “No wonder all the cowboys were gunslingers and psychopaths. Their boots drove them to mindless violence.”
“It’s not rocket science, Ian—all you need to do is break the boots in. Did you bring any other shoes?”
The minister looked suddenly sheepish. “Why would I do that?”
This time, Maggie laughed out loud. “’Cause you knew you couldn’t spend a full day in your fancy new cowboy boots. Tomorrow get some baby powder and a pair of slippery socks and wear your boots for a few hours. Do that for a few days, and I guarantee you’ll never go back to those yuppie loafers of yours.”
“Right now, my yuppie loafers sound like the best thing in the world.” Ian turned and went back to his car, dropping into the driver’s seat with a grunt-sigh combination that was a pure release from pain. He struggled and teased his boots off and eased his feet into his penny loafers and joined Maggie. “About that coffee I owe you—let’s do it.”
As they walked to the snack truck and the cluster of people around it, Ian “ahhhed” at each stride. His right hand touched Maggie’s left, and she felt her own palm turn toward Ian’s to accept it, and then they both pulled back from that contact.
What is this? I want to hold this guy’s hand—like a silly teen swept away by infatuation. This is all wrong—completely wrong.
Ian stepped ahead of Maggie and stopped. “What’s the matter?”
Maggie’s fabricated look of confusion didn’t convince either one of them. “What do you mean?”
“Your face just changed—and your eyes got cold or angry or something. I was watching you and... I dunno. You went away somewhere else.”
“Just a bad moment.” Maggie attempted to force a smile, but her face wouldn’t cooperate. “Could you go get the coffee? I need a second.”
Ian looked at her for a moment longer and then nodded. “Sure. You’re OK, though?”
“I’m fine.” She took a
few steps, stopped, and gazed off toward the riders. This is absolutely insane. I’m at a horse show with Tessa and some friends. I’m supposed to have a good time—fun—see people I haven’t seen, people I like a lot. Where does this stupid guilt come from? I don’t even know Ian Lane...
“Hey, Maggie, I brought you some coffee.”
Maggie turned to find Danny holding out to her a large Styrofoam cup with steam escaping from its top. His smile was broad and warm, and she was glad to see him.
“Thanks, Dan. I’m gonna be coffee-d to death today. You’re early—no office hours?”
“Nope.” The vet smiled. “I rescheduled those I had. It was just injections and routine well-animal exams.” He tapped the pager attached to his belt. “If this doesn’t buzz, I’ve got the whole day to watch Tessa and horses and eat hot dogs.”
“Or watch Tessa and hot dogs and eat horses,” Ian said, coming up to them with a large coffee in each hand.
“See what I mean about caffeine overload?” Maggie laughed. “You two know one another, right?” The men set the cups on the ground to shake hands. Danny took an awkward half step toward the minister and nudged one of the cups he’d placed on the ground with the side of his boot.
“That takes care of the extra cup,” Ian said, handing one of his drinks to Maggie. “Good to see you, Danny.”
“You too, Ian. I didn’t realize you were a barrel-racing fan.”
“This is my first time, but I’ve seen some competitions on the tube. It looks exciting. When Maggie invited me I jumped at the chance to see it live.”
Maggie wondered if she’d imagined the quick shadow that crossed Danny’s eyes, and then decided she hadn’t. After just a bit too much hesitation, Danny said, “Great. You’ll like it.” He looked at Maggie. “How’s Tessa holding up? Nervous?”
“Of course,” Maggie smiled. “This is a real big deal for her—her first time in competition with Turnip. She’s hoping her mom will make it in time to see her run.”
“Sarah operating?” Ian asked.
“Yes—but early, according to Tessa. Sarah told her she’d be here.”
“That’d be good,” Danny said. “C’mon, let’s go watch the riders warm up their horses.” He turned to Ian. “That’s a show in itself.”
An artist’s palette of colors painted the large open area, with horses of every conceivable color loping, jogging, turning figure eights, or, in short, controlled bursts of speed, galloping. The Western shirts of the women and girls were splashes of reds, greens, blues, and yellows, and every possible shade in between. The hats, invariably carefully molded Stetsons, were bits of a rainbow moving seemingly at random, like brightly painted fireflies caught out in the daylight.
The twelve- to sixteen-year-old competitors tended to stay grouped at one end of the exercise rectangle. There, the hoofbeats were punctuated by quick, nervous, high-pitched squeals of laughter, and the phrase “I love your shirt!” was a sort of mantra.
Tessa was a joyous part of this, sitting atop Turnip comfortably, wheeling him in large circles at a slow lope. She wore her Stetson tugged low in front, shading her eyes from the sun, and her straw-blond hair under her hat flowed over her shoulders.
Maggie waved and caught the girl’s glance, and Tessa swung Turnip toward her, Ian, and Danny. Tessa picked her way through the other riders, and when her face was suddenly split by a massive, heartwarming smile, Maggie looked over her shoulder. Sarah Morrison was striding toward them, her smile as broad and as heartfelt as that of her daughter.
Tessa stepped down from her horse, and Danny held Turnip’s reins as Tessa embraced her mom. “This is so awesome,” the girl gushed. “I love it all. The other girls are great, an’ Turnip’s working perfectly! I’m so glad you’re all here.”
“If you were wound any tighter, you wouldn’t need Turnip to run those barrels,” Ian observed. “You could do it on foot and probably win.”
“When do you go into the arena?” Sarah asked.
“In about a half hour the first dozen riders gather at the back gate. Then, when our numbers are called, we ride in and make our runs.” Tessa took a breath. “This is so awwwesome!”
“It sure is,” Maggie said. “Remember, honey, give the barrels room. You’ve been brushing them too close lately. Give Turnip the space he needs to come around. OK?”
Tessa nodded. “I will, Maggie.” She kissed Sarah’s cheek and took the reins from Danny. Then, quickly, she hugged him.
“Go get ’em, Tess,” he said with a laugh. “You burn up that pattern, girl!”
Tessa swung into her saddle and in a moment was threading her way to open ground.
The four adults were quiet for a moment. Finally, Ian said quite seriously, “If the look on that girl’s face a few seconds ago is any indication, I’d say that barrel racing is the greatest sport ever invented. She’s great, Sarah.”
“She’s awwwesome,” Maggie laughed, stretching the word just as Tessa had moments ago.
Maggie often wondered if there was a particular company that manufactured tinny, static-ridden sound systems and sold them exclusively to rodeo facilities. “The Star Spangled Banner” sounded like a very lethargic—or perhaps intoxicated—Minnie Mouse. The announcer attempted to adjust the speed of the recording, and the final dozen or so words of the song zipped by in perhaps a second.
When they were seated again on the bleachers after the national anthem—Maggie and Sarah, with Danny and Ian at either end of the group—Maggie shifted on the hardwood plank and inadvertently elbowed Sarah. “Wow—you’re as tense as a block of steel! This is supposed to be fun, ya know.”
Sarah tried a smile that didn’t quite work. “This is exactly how I felt when I first held a scalpel over a live patient with my mentor and the head of surgery watching me.” She moved her knees and lower body to face Maggie.
“Careful,” Maggie warned. “Splinters. It might be embarrassing for you to have to go to a colleague to have wood removed from your derriere. Some of these planks are pretty raw.”
This time, Sarah’s smile was real. As she started to speak, the music rose and the announcer bleated out the name of the first contestant in the twelve-to-sixteen age group. Sarah swallowed whatever she was about to say and concentrated on the rider with the same degree of intensity she’d have exhibited if she were doing a lifesaving surgical procedure. Danny cheered and whooped with the crowd, and Ian seemed happily transfixed by the action in the arena.
The young riders were good, as Maggie knew they would be. These kids had trained and tuned their horses and themselves to shave seconds—and tenths of seconds—from their runs with the devotion and persistence of a teenaged Tiger Woods endlessly practicing chip shots and putts. What the older barrel racers had that they lacked was experience in real competition and the confidence that comes with that experience—which they were beginning to accumulate today.
Maggie drifted in the familiar and comfortable ambiance of the competition. The excitement of the audience, the cheers and the applause, the sympathetic “oohs” when a rider took down a barrel, the glory of the perfect weather, washed over her like a warm spring breeze after a long and cold winter.
She glanced at Ian sitting next to her on her left. He was leaning forward, hands on his knees, pulling with every part of his being for a chubby redheaded girl on a tall black mare as she turned the final barrel and galloped toward the finish line.
Next to her on her right, Sarah Morrison sat like an obelisk, unmoving except for her eyes, which followed every move of each rider. Danny, to Sarah’s right, glanced at Maggie, and their eyes met for a moment. She smiled and so did he.
Danny doesn’t much like the seating arrangements. And that tiny bit of—what?—sadness when I mentioned I’d invited Ian to join us. But it wasn’t that—wasn’t sadness, exactly. Anger? No. Hurt. It was hurt.
Even through the hiss and squeal of the announcer’s static, the words “Tessa Morrison riding Turnip” were as clear to Ian, Maggie, Sarah,
and Danny as if they’d come through a concert sound system. Sarah started to rise, but Maggie touched her shoulder. “You can’t stand up—the people behind you won’t be able to see,” she said. “Barrel-racing audience rules and regs.”
Sarah eased back to her seat without speaking, her face grim.
Tessa and Turnip came out of the chute at a full gallop, Turnip reaching far ahead of himself and dragging long sweeps of ground under him.
“Turnip’s head’s a little high,” Maggie mumbled to herself. “He’s not watching that right barrel...”
Tessa, leaning far forward in the saddle, cued Turnip for the turn a snippet of a second too early. The buckskin started his turn perfectly but had to interpose a stutter step to avoid crowding the barrel. Even so, his inside shoulder brushed the drum, rocking it.
“Ohhh,” Sarah gasped as if she’d been punched.
The barrel rocked a couple of inches for an eternity—and then settled back in place. By then, Tessa and Turnip were long gone, digging toward the first left turn, the horse’s head lower now, his eyes—and Tessa’s—focused on the red and white drum with the letters NBRA on it as if it were the last thing either of them would ever see. Clods of dirt spewed into the air as Turnip and his rider leaned to the left and blasted around the barrel, as close to it as a coat of paint but not touching it.
Turnip’s flight to the final barrel was a thing of beauty that drew applause from much of the crowd. He moved like a greyhound, stretched to his limit, hooves sweeping over the ground, head extended and low, eyes again riveted to the barrel.
It was a good turn—not a perfect one, but a good one—that brought horse and rider around in good position to race home. Tessa’s whoop was pure joy as Turnip’s awesome power and speed carried them to the finish.
Sarah Morrison’s whoop was louder than the applause of the crowd. “Did you see that?” she shrieked.
“We saw it, Sarah,” Maggie smiled. “And I’m at least as proud of her as you are.”
Maggie turned the steering wheel of her truck into the gust that had attempted to muscle the vehicle off the road and onto the shoulder, and looked at the landscape around her. Winters in Montana settled in during late October and early November and didn’t relinquish their arctic stranglehold until well into May. The sky took on a cerulean depth that was breathtakingly beautiful and at the same time starkly intimidating, because the depth of the blue was hard, flinty, and offered not an iota of warmth. The hues of this Montana winter were vivid rather than soft and gentle to the eye—the fields of snow, the expanses of dead grass, the naked trees, the diamondlike ice of streams, rivers, and ponds, the endless lines of fence posts sharp-edged under the endless sky.
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