The Boss takes one look at my panicked expression and says, “Lose one of my horses out here and you’re fired.” Good thing I didn’t just do something stupid like buy a horse I can’t really afford or anything.
The Boss tacks up Hoppy while Jumpy waits in the trailer. Ground mounting this equine firecracker is not an option. So he cradles my leg for one of those leg-ups I’ve grown to appreciate, then instructs me to wait while he tacks up his mount.
I don’t wait for the Boss so much as immediately get run away with at full speed. Crap. Luckily, I’m a pretty seasoned Gallop Girl now and I manage to bring Hoppy to a screeching halt in relatively short order.
While I’m busy congratulating myself, Hoppy figures out that he’s all alone on an alien planet surrounded by a giant, roaring, horse-eating ocean. His entire body shudders as he screams at the top of his lungs, desperate to be rescued. I hear you, Hoppy. I know what it’s like to suddenly be all alone and not recognize your surroundings. But you’ve got to trust that nobody is going to ask you for more than you can handle.
Seconds later, I hear the pounding footfalls of a horse galloping towards me, followed by the Boss’s faint cry of “Hang on, Princesses. I’m coming.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but it’s like a giant gust of wind slaps me awake and I scream at the top of my lungs, “DON’T CALL ME PRINCESS!!!” Margaret Fletcher may be a little lost right now. But she is not waiting around to be rescued by some Knight in shining armor. I gallop ahead, confident that I know where I am going. By the time the Boss catches up, I’m cheering “WHOO HOO” and “YEE HAW” like some kind of possessed cowgirl.
The Boss and I gallop side by side. The whole scene feels like a romantic fairytale. I know that when the evening is over, I’ll turn back into a pumpkin — a poor and dirty pumpkin. But right now, I can’t imagine anything worth having more than this moment.
Before I know what hits me, I’m back at the trailer reluctantly dismounting my tired mount. The moment my feet hit the sand, I’m struck by the reality of my situation. My un-hairnet-ed hair is fashioned in a giant tangle. My skin is burnt from the wind and my jeans are completely soaked through with saltwater. I’m sure that I’m going to get sick and I’ll probably have to shave my head in the morning, but all I can say is, “Wow! That was so much FUN!”
The Boss laughs, looking straight at me with the most intense gorgeous crinkly eyes I have ever seen. I think I just may have had the best night of my entire life.
BACK AT THE BARN, I’ve got both horses unloaded and drying under their wool coolers. Next it’s time to unload the tack, unhook the trailer and sweep out the poop from the back. I think the Boss is taken aback by the enthusiasm with which I complete these menial tasks. But the hard work feels good and the leftover adrenaline from our beach ride is helping me get the job done in record time. Next, the Boss tells me to rub the horses down with liniment, wrap their legs and tuck them in good night. I’m not sure I know how to do any of those things. In all my years of riding, I’ve never tucked a horse in good night, wrapped one leg or rubbed down a single tired muscle that wasn’t my own. Don’t get me wrong, my horses always received the best care money could buy, and I took great pride in the bloom of health glowing on their coats. But until now, it didn’t occur to me that I might be taking pride in the fruits of someone else’s labor.
I tell the Boss that I would like to become a better horseman. He bursts into uncontrollable laughter at the sound of the word “horseman”. “Princess, you’re a decent rider, but you’re light years away from being anything resembling a horseman.” Ninety seconds into this nightmare and the Boss is still laughing. But it’s not until he calls Sam to include him in the joke that I become seriously offended.
OK, fine. I get it. Let me tell you something, Johnny Racetrack: I may not be a horseman, but do you have any idea how difficult it is to juggle five horses on the winter circuit while completing your senior year of high school online? Of course, I don’t actually say that out loud. Because deep down, I know he’s right. The idea that someone who has never tacked up her own horse could even think to call herself a horseman is ridiculous.
“Sorry, Princess. It’s just sometimes you say the funniest things and I can’t control myself.” Can’t control himself? Sounds like someone is preparing to spice things up with his favorite Gallop Girl… strict adherence to the boundaries of the employer/employee relationship be damned. I need to let the Boss know I’m ready to behave inappropriately in return. So I dip my toe in these deliciously warm waters and coyly say, “Why don’t you show me how to rub the horses down with all that other fancy stuff you keep talking about?”
I think the Boss is a little taken aback by how quickly the cool and cautious Margaret Fletcher is willing to tread into such dangerous territory. How’s that for uptight, Boss? He cracks a smile and I can feel the situation heating up as he says, “OK, Princess, the first thing to remember is that a thoroughbred is a lot like a man. Sure, we look big and strong on the outside. But inside we are delicate creatures who appreciate a sensitive touch.” I’ve got to say, watching Johnny Racetrack gently rub liniment onto the hindquarters of an appreciative animal has completely changed my attitude towards the man. Sure, he can be a bit of a jerk. But, man, “That’s one lucky horse.”
I can’t believe I just said that out loud. Watch out, Margaret Fletcher is feeling bold. The Boss looks me up and down like he is appraising a fine antique and says, “Princess, are you flirting with me?” I don’t know what I’m doing. But whatever it is has him involuntarily flexing his pectoral muscles and speaking in a soft husky tone. So I’m not going to stop. I should probably say something sexy. But my lack of flirtation skills are starting to show.
On my silence, the Boss pulls out the Biegle Oil and my entire body begins to warm up as he pours the liquid into my hand. I know in my heart that I have to acknowledge the romance of this situation. So I put on my best come hither look and say, “You’re not supposed to call me Princess anymore, remember?” I can hear the reasoned voice of Emily discouraging me from upping the ante. But something about the smell of Biegle Oil and horse sweat is making me feel reckless. So when the Boss responds, “Well, you’re not supposed to flirt with your boss,” I act all sultry and say, “I’m not the one rubbing that horse down like it just bought me dinner.”
I think the kitchen is getting a little too hot for the Boss. His cheeks are flushed, but husky accent is gone and he stubbornly refuses to meet my glance. I’m desperate to rekindle that spark. Do I dare offer to give him a massage? The Boss breaks my concentration and says, “Alright, Tiger, let’s wrap these horses’ legs and put them to bed before I get myself in any more trouble.”
Wait, where did “Princess” go? “Tiger”? Isn’t that what one calls one’s favorite nephew before ruffling their hair? I’m sure when I look back on this moment I’ll realize that “Tiger” was the Boss’s signal to take things down a notch. But right now, I’m still high on adrenaline from the greatest night ever, so I respond to his attempt to rebrand me with an asexual nickname by asking a bunch of inappropriate questions about his relationship with Erica. “Is she really good in bed? Because I can’t imagine you’re with her for the conversation. And I bet cuddling with her at night feels like trying to warm up next to a stainless steel champagne bucket filled with ice and no champagne.”
The Boss looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. As we stand together in uncomfortable silence, I can feel the sparkle of sexual tension grind to a complete halt. Like I said, no one ever taught Margaret Fletcher how to flirt. Instead of addressing my inappropriately familiar comments, the Boss hands me a bandage and delivers a dry demonstration on the proper technique with which to apply a standing wrap. The moment has passed and there is no getting it back.
We wrap the next four legs together in silence. Stony silence. The kind of silence that gives a girl the chance to come down off the Biegle Oil fumes and reflect on her behavior. What am I doing? The Boss is a
taken man. Besides, how great can he possibly be? He has already chosen to mate with Erica Lewis. That shows some serious lack of judgment. I’m probably just flirting with him in some misguided attempt to get back at my childhood nemesis anyway. I bet the second he breaks up with Erica, he turns into a troll.
I take a moment to remind myself that I am in the midst of a transformative stage in my life. I have significant goals ahead of me just waiting to be achieved. Goals more important than trying to land a boyfriend. Goals like getting back into the Hunter ring and showing all my old detractors that Margaret Fletcher may be down, but she is not out!
So I go home and spend the rest of the evening combing my hair and reflecting on my role in that argument with Emily. If I can gallop a feral horse on the beach, I can learn how to braid a mane, muck a stall and sleep on an inflatable mattress in the back of a pick-up truck. It may not be glamorous. But if that is what is required of my new budget equestrian lifestyle, I am ready for the challenge!
CHAPTER 8
~ Emily takes on a challenge ~
To: Emily Morris ([email protected])
From: Margaret Fletcher ([email protected])
Re: Sorry
It has been brought to my attention that my behavior the other day was out of line. I’m sorry. I know sometimes I come across as a little judgmental and maybe even a smidge pompous. But please be assured that my admiration for you and all that you have accomplished despite the unfortunate circumstances of your upbringing is sincere. You are a remarkable person, an amazing rider and an even better friend. I would be absolutely gutted if I ever did anything to offend you again.
Now that we’ve got all that messy groveling out of the way, I would like to propose that we set aside an afternoon in the near future for you to teach me how to braid a mane, muck a stall and sleep on an inflatable mattress. I feel confident that I already know how to eat string cheese and nuts. But I guess I have to learn how to do all that other stuff, now that I’m a scruffy “pick herself up by her bootstraps” kind of equestrian. And there is nobody I would rather have teach me than you, Emily Morris.
***
SHE CAN’T BE SERIOUS. Nobody needs someone to teach them how to sleep on an inflatable mattress. I don’t care how rich they were growing up. Blow it up, put on your pajamas and lie down. It’s not a mystery. I’ve already forgiven Margaret for her display of equestrian excess yesterday. But I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to teach her something that should be pretty intuitive by this stage in her life. Uncle Sam accuses me of giving Margaret a hard time out of jealousy. Jealousy? Please! Sure, I wish I had had more opportunities in my life. But I NEVER wanted to be the kind of person who makes it to adulthood without learning how to muck a stall.
But I guess when I agreed to take on the job of retraining Chocolates, I also accepted the challenge of retraining Margaret Fletcher. So I tell her to meet me at Green Acres dressed to get dirty. Margaret shows up in tan breeches and perfectly polished Italian field boots. Yeah, that’s appropriate for getting dirty.
“Of course this is an appropriate way for me to dress for the barn, Emily,” Margaret preemptively announces, “Don’t worry. I’m not afraid to get these breeches dirty. This is my schooling attire.” Schooling attire? I’m counting at least five hundred dollars of overpriced riding gear. And that’s not counting the boots.
As annoyed as I am by Margaret’s outfit, I don’t want to scare her away. So I start with the genteel task of equine hairstyling. First, we need to pull Chocolate’s mane so it is the proper length and thickness for braiding. But Margaret is too squeamish to “rip Chocolate’s hair out from the follicle like some kind of barbarian”. I get the sense that Margaret is prepared to dig her heels in on this one, so I do my best to ignore her dramatic flinching as I take care of the job of pulling Chocolate’s mane all by myself. All right, Princess, if you can’t pull a mane, you can at least learn how to braid one. But as it turns out, no, she can’t. After forty five minutes of watching her tie poor Chocolate’s mane into messy knots, I’m left wondering if she even has opposable thumbs.
Screw genteel. We’re mucking stalls.
“Emily,” Margaret replies, “These are my favorite Italian schooling boots. Horse urine is going to burn a hole right through this fine leather. I know you said that we’d get dirty, but I really think this is over the top.”
I throw a pair of rubber wellies in Margaret’s direction. Her face scrunches up like a prune. She makes the tough decision to sacrifice her fancy boots instead of “wearing something that was probably purchased at a tractor supply store”. Margaret dedicates a whole three minutes to the job of mucking Chocolate’s stall. Finished, it looks as bad as when she started. But I guess I should be happy that I got her to pick out one whole pile of manure. The only thing left is teaching Princess how to sleep on an inflatable mattress. And I’m just not doing that.
Forty-five minutes into this training session, and Margaret is as spoiled and ridiculous as ever. It’s a disaster and I’m faced with the humiliating reality that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve never been good at dealing with failure. It all started twelve years ago when I got eliminated in the dressage phase of my first Pony Club rally because my horse wandered outside of the arena for a graze. Uncle Sam convinced the organizers to let me continue on to cross-country anyway. “It will be a good experience kid.” But I refused to leave the start box. No matter what Uncle Sam said, I couldn’t get past the humiliation of my earlier failure. So I packed up my things and didn’t try again for another year. He never let me live it down. “Let me tell you something, Emily, the only surefire way to fail in life is to never try.”
Just remembering those words puts a pit in my stomach that lasts all day. The only surefire way to fail in life is to never try. I eat a box of saltine crackers for lunch and drink a six pack of ginger ale. But the queasiness doesn’t go away until I find the courage to send Turtle Cumberbund an email asking her to save my spot. I might have no hope of teaching Margaret Fletcher any new tricks. But I’m going to make that Box of Chocolates of ours into a world-class hunter and we’re going to sell him for all the cash I need to make my dreams come true. Because trying is succeeding and nobody is ever going to accuse me of giving up too soon again.
CHAPTER 9
~ Margaret Goes on a Shopping Spree ~
I feel good after my afternoon learning how to behave like a farmhand. Yep, it turns out Margaret Fletcher can shed her pampered ways and find it in herself to slum it with the worst of them. But that doesn’t mean that Chocolates should. He is the product of royal breeding. He deserves the very best. I have just the bridle to show off his noble head. I bet if I have the cheek pieces shortened, it will be a perfect fit.
I HAVEN’T VISITED MARY’S TACK SHOP SINCE MY HALCYON DAYS of spending sprees and leather hording. Oh, how I have missed that smell. It pains me to know that I can’t afford to purchase anything while I’m here. Not even a fresh tub of lederbalsam. No, I’m here on a mission. Get those cheek pieces shortened and get out before siren smell of French baby calf leather becomes impossible to resist.
It figures I would show up the one day Erica Lewis is getting fitted for a new pair of custom boots. I turn and make a beeline for the door, praying I can make it out before she sees me.
But when I hear her screech, “Oh my God, look at that bridle! Talk about a blast from the past. I hope you’re not hoping to sell that old thing, Margaret. Because NOBODY would be caught dead showing in a wide noseband anymore,” I know I’m screwed. Erica takes one look at my old bridle and seizes on the opportunity to point out that everything I own is now hopelessly outdated. “Wow. Can you believe fancy stitching like that was ever in style?”
I would love to prove to myself that I’m above exchanging barbs with Erica. But I just can’t stand the smug look on her face. So I take advantage of the knowledge that she has been fixated on the width of her calves ever since she measured a medium on an Italian boot-
maker’s size chart. “New boots, Erica? Are your calves swelling up again?”
But Erica is in rare form today. “No, Margaret, I’m still a perfect thirteen and a half inches. No bigger than those new biceps of yours.” I do my best to ignore the insult until Erica insists Mary hand over the tape measure so she can measure my biceps. Just for fun.
Mary knows where her bread is buttered. Before I know what hits me, Erica is molesting me with the tape measure, giggling, “Look how bulky you are! You look like some kind of heavyweight boxer now!” Little does she know, I’m proud of my brand new 100% Grade-A muscles. And I use them to fling Erica’s scrawny little body back into the overpriced custom boot section of the store.
Disoriented, Erica mutters, “Did you just push me, Fletcher?” I put my hand on my hip and give her a look warning her that if she doesn’t back off, I can do it again. Easily. A look of shock washes over Erica’s angular features. I detect a hint of genuine fear in her voice as she blubbers, “This isn’t the streets, Margaret! It’s a tack shop. In case you have forgotten, which you clearly have, you’re expected to behave like a lady in nice places like this!”
Erica is flustered and I’m feeling victorious. There are benefits to becoming a more rough-and-tumble person and I have Winning Edge to thank. Then I notice her breeches. Who makes those beautiful works of art and where can I get a pair?
Off my drooling expression, Erica knows she’s found HER weapon in this battle. She gives me an evil smile, “Aren’t these great? I got them in Germany. The fabric is specially engineered to reflect the sun keeping you — oh, sorry, ME — at least 4 degrees cooler. You’ve got to love the Germans. They never miss an opportunity to find a competitive advantage. Remember when we refused to be seen in anything but Tailored Sportsman? It was such a quaint time. What are you doing here anyway? I hope you don’t expect to find a new pair of goggles here! Mary, do you carry goggles? You know those hideous things that grooms wear at the racetrack?”
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 9