“I am not a groom, Erica. I’m an exercise rider,” I say through gritted teeth.
Erica apologizes to Mary for my outburst and explains that my new work schedule requires me to get up at an ungodly hour every morning to muck stalls. If looks could kill, I would be peeling those breeches off Erica’s cold dead body.
Right on cue, Erica gives me an innocent look and says, “Oh dear. I know what’s going on. You came here to try and sell that bridle so you can pay your rent and here I am cracking jokes. Sometimes I can be such a ninny.”
I know I should stop feeding the troll and walk out that door. But I just can’t bring myself to let Erica Lewis have the last word. So I say, “It just so happens, I’ve got a new hunter prospect that I plan on showing at The Classic. Word on the street is everyone is going retro in the hunter ring this year. A discriminating equine with a refined head wouldn’t be caught dead in anything BUT a wide noseband with fancy stitching.”
I hand the bridle over to Mary and ask her to make the necessary adjustments. But I can tell from the expression on Erica’s face that she’s not buying what I’m selling.
“Well, knock me over with a feather,” she says with an evil glint of mischief in her eye. I want to hit her over the head with a baseball bat. Instead, I smile and order a custom wool cooler from Mary. All the bells and whistles, please. I know I can’t afford a custom cooler right now. But I need to make a statement here.
The gesture isn’t lost on Erica. While Mary rings up a bill I have no business signing my name to, Erica starts firing off the backhanded compliments designed to make me feel small. “Wow, Margaret. That horse of yours must be something special if you’re willing to sacrifice an ENTIRE month’s salary on a new wool cooler in the middle of summer.”
I am not a hundred percent certain who is winning right now. But I feel confident enough that I can leave with my head held high.
But Erica Lewis is a malevolent genius and she’s not going to let me get out of this situation with nothing but a wool cooler I have no use for and can’t afford. “Hey, Margaret, why don’t you bring that horse of yours to the Geoff Maurice clinic I’m hosting at my farm? It’s two weeks from Saturday. I won’t even charge you.”
It is an insanely generous offer. Generous because a weekend clinic with Geoff Maurice can easily run upward of a couple thousand dollars. Insane because I haven’t even jumped a cross rail in over a year. Notorious for his exacting standards and hair-trigger temper, one does not take signing up for a Geoff Maurice clinic lightly. I am well aware that Erica Lewis is setting me up to be the laughingstock of her clinic. I politely decline, reminding the little witch that some of us work for a living.
Erica cackles like a hyena and says, “I’m sleeping with your Boss, remember? I’m sure I can convince him to give you the time off.”
Oh, Erica, gross me out all you want. I’m not falling for your trap. So when she continues, “Oh, silly me. I hope I’m not being too pushy. Sometimes I forget that we’re just not in the same league anymore. You probably haven’t even jumped a fence in over a year,” I can’t help myself and say, “Sign me up.”
Crap.
CHAPTER 10
~ Emily chickens out ~
I’ve been retraining ex-racers for three years. Not once has Uncle Sam taken an interest in one of my projects. But Chocolates is different. Every morning he calls, asking for an update on “Money Bags”. I’m pretty sure Sam has him confused with another horse from his distant past. But I humor him and admit that “Money Bags” is still enjoying his mini-vacation while I finish my research on how to make a nice hunter.
At the sound of the word “vacation”, Sam screams into the phone, “Emily, if you want make cookies, you’ve got to spill some flour on the kitchen floor.”
Sam is confused. I don’t expect him to understand. I should stop listening to his incoherent ramblings the moment the unsolicited baking tips start. I’m about to hang up the phone when suddenly I hear clarity in Uncle Sam’s voice that hasn’t been there in years. I stop and hold my breath, eager for a glimpse of the man I remember before Sam’s brain got all fuzzy.
“When your mother was your age, she used to always talk about starting her own business,” he says, “But for every example she had of how it was going to change her life, she had three reasons why that business might fail. Instead of risking failure, she sat on her hands and did nothing. Let me tell you something, the only surefire way to fail in life is —”
— to never try. I get it. That’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to not screw up. I am trying to get myself to England to train with the best. I’m trying to become an international event rider on a shoestring budget. I realize that my mother never had the guts to try. But that’s not my problem anymore. My problem is I don’t have the money it takes to make my dreams come true, and if I don’t do a stellar job of retraining Chocolates, I never will.”
I hang up the phone feeling inexplicably defeated. I know taking my time to give Chocolates a slow, confidence-building start is the right thing to do. So why am I afraid to tell Margaret about Chocolates’ little vacation when she storms onto the farm, demanding to see evidence of our progress? For the past two weeks, all she has cared about is fancy stitched bridles and herringbone versus windowpane plaid wool jackets. But now she’s barging onto Green Acres with a look of purpose on her face, announcing at the top of her lungs, “Emily, I’m riding Chocolates in the Geoff Maurice clinic in two weeks. So whatever you’re working on, it’s time to speed things up!”
My mouth is agape in disbelief as Margaret describes her little game of tit for tat with Erica. It sounds ridiculously juvenile to me. Sure, we get two free lessons with the best horse trainer in the country. But it’s not like Chocolates and Margaret have any hope of performing well at a clinic like that. He’s too green and she’s too rusty. Geoff Maurice will eat them alive.
I have no choice but to tell Margaret the truth. I take a deep breath and confess everything: the mini-vacation, Uncle Sam’s accusations and my firm belief that Chocolates just isn’t ready for something as complicated as a fancy clinic.
Surprise, surprise, Margaret is not taking the news very well. “You’ve had him for THREE WEEKS! What the hell have you been doing?” she screeches.
When she says it like that, it sounds like I haven’t been doing my job. I immediately start to get hot under my collar. But then I take a deep breath and remind myself that, like a green horse learning a new job, Margaret Fletcher doesn’t mean to be so difficult, she just doesn’t know any better. “Margaret, Chocolates isn’t some made packer that was just imported from Germany. He needs time to learn his new job. You’re just going to have to cool your heels and turn down Erica’s generous offer. I’m sorry. But sending Chocolates to this clinic before he is ready is literally putting the cart before the horse!”
Aside from that sucker punch in my trailer the first day we met, Margaret Fletcher has always struck me as someone with a firm grasp on her emotions. So I’m a little taken aback when she screams at the top of her lungs, “PUTTING THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE? HOW ABOUT YOU JUST TRY PUTTING A SADDLE ON IT AND RIDING IT AROUND LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD!” Now Margaret is the one taking a deep breath, trying to cool her heels. I don’t say a word, strangely terrified to speak unless spoken to. “I know I’m new to this whole DIY horse-training thing, Emily. So please tell me how is Chocolates is supposed to get trained sitting in a field eating grass?! That horse is going to be a hunter, and hunters jump over fences with a RIDER ON THEIR BACK. We have to start him under saddle NOW. If you’re too chicken to do it, I will.”
Chicken? The little tart is calling me chicken? Margaret Fletcher may be a good rider, but she is not braver than I am. I could get on that horse right now and jump a course of fences if I wanted to. I bet even Margaret would be impressed with my skills in the jumper ring. Sure, I don’t have years of top-notch training under my belt or a lower leg that never shifts out of place. But jumping horses is about more
than just having the kind of feel and timing with your aids that makes riding even the toughest horse look effortless. It’s about getting the job done. And that might not always look pretty or “classically correct” to someone like Margaret Fletcher. I’m sure she would have all kinds of things to say about my heel not being deep enough or shoulders snapping too far forward. I can already hear her equitation critique. “Emily, you need to soften your hands and give him a better release over that fence!” Ridiculous!
You know what? If Margaret wants to humiliate herself in a clinic that she is totally unprepared for, go for it. Maybe this will be a teachable moment. Rushing into things when you’re not ready is never a good idea. I tried to protect her, but it looks like she’ll have to get a little egg on her face before she is ready to listen.
“All right, Margaret,” I say, “If you want to take Chocolates to the clinic, you’re going to have to ride him yourself for the next two weeks. That means it’s going to be your job to teach him how trot, canter and jump like a show horse. Do you think you can handle that?”
Margaret assures me that she is up for the task. I’m pretty sure she’s not. But some girls just have to learn the hard way.
CHAPTER 11
~ Margaret Falls on Her Ass ~
DAY ONE
Why is Emily making such a big deal about riding Chocolates? I’ve ridden him before. In an exercise saddle, no less. Those things are so tiny you can’t even sit properly. I’ve been begging the Boss for weeks to let me gallop in my favorite Hermes. Nothing like perfectly-balanced French leather to make a girl ride her best. But he just laughs at me and tells me I’m cute. So dismissive. Sometimes I don’t know why I find him attractive.
Well, now I finally get to ride Chocolates in serious equipment and I can’t wait. Emily is stuffing all kinds of weird towels and memory foam pads under my saddle, insisting that she’s improving the fit. Fifteen minutes later, she’s still not completely satisfied. With absolutely no regard for time, she insists I go back to my apartment and bring back every saddle from my collection. I do. Of course, she picks my oldest, least favorite model in the bunch. “It’s about Chocolates’ comfort, Margaret. Not yours.” As if I’m trying to make Chocolates wear some kind of itchy wool sweater.
Finally, I get the go-ahead to swing a leg over Chocolates. But the second my butt hits leather, I’m struck by an unfamiliar sensation. This isn’t how this saddle feels when I ride my couch. Why are my stirrups a mile long? I suppose I have gotten used to riding shorter when I gallop. I stand tall in these new stirrups, stretching my legs and deepening my ankle as I make my way down to the arena. I’m sure everything will start to feel more comfortable once I start jumping fences.
I only asked Emily to come so she could set some fences, so I don’t understand why she’s yelling at me from across the arena like some kind of authority figure. “Sit down in the saddle and stop bridging your reins. We’re not at the track!”
I look down at Chocolates’ mane and see that I’ve got my reins in the tight cross I’ve grown to rely on at Winning Edge. That’s not a very classical piece of equitation, Margaret. Looks like I have some new habits that I’ll have to break before I return to the Hunter ring.
I uncross my reins and prepare to start this racehorse’s reeducation. But Chocolates is just as confused by my new position in the tack as I am. Every time I try to sink into the saddle, he raises his head and drops his back. When I apply gentle pressure on the reins to encourage Chocolates to give to the bit, he quickens his pace, making it impossible for me to let go. Riding Chocolates around the small, enclosed space of Green Acres’ jump arena feels like trying to wrap a steel rod around a giant blob of Jell-O. It’s just not working.
All this flatwork is making me crazy. What does it matter anyway? Hunters jump fences: they don’t perform aimless patterns in the sand. I beg Emily to set up a fence so I can start jumping and get into my old groove. She reluctantly throws a pole on the ground and instructs me to approach it at a trot.
I ignore her, pick up the canter and aim Chocolates at the ridiculous “jump” in the center of the ring. He charges at the pole with the kind of motivation he never displayed on the gallop track. Ah, there is nothing like the feeling of riding a good jumper when he has locked onto a fence.
I’m still basking in that familiar glow when, without warning, Chocolates slams on the brakes in front of the pole, leaving me with no choice but to jump the fence myself, sans equine. I land with a thud — flat on my back, inch deep in unsanitary arena sand. Ouch.
I know exactly what Emily is thinking right now. Little Miss Fancy Breeches can bring home a ribbon in good company, but put her on something that cost less than six figures and she falls apart. It’s a jab I’ve heard many times before. The petty voices of jealous railbirds always floated across the arena as I collected my ribbons. “I would be up there too if my Daddy could afford to buy me a push-button packer.” I always knew that my well-schooled horses gave me an advantage. But I also believed my talent was never dependent on my family’s money.
Emily takes her time strolling across the arena, seemingly unconcerned about my wellbeing. She arrives at my side in time to help me wipe the dirt off my helmet. “Don’t worry, Margaret. You’re doing fine.” No, I’m not. My butt is covered in arena sand, I’ve got a horse poop stain on my polo shirt and my ego needs a trip to the ER. But I’m too disoriented to say any of that out loud. Instead, I brush the last bit of dirt off my breeches and say, “No, Emily. Nothing about this situation is fine.”
DAY TWO
I’m up until 2 AM trying to manufacture a plausible excuse to drop out of the Geoff Maurice clinic. But all I can think about is Erica’s smug, knowing expression if I graciously decline her challenge.
Three hours later, I’m at Winning Edge, where I’m expected to gallop seven horses for the Boss. But my tailbone, right hip and ankle are still screaming in pain from yesterday’s fall on Chocolates. The old Margaret Fletcher would have scheduled a visit to the chiropractor, a full-body massage and a Dead Sea seaweed wrap to combat the discomfort. But the new Margaret Fletcher knows that she is expected to work through the pain. So I put on my stiffest upper lip and march into the barn prepared to do my duty.
“Princess, you look like you can barely move,” the Boss says.
I’m not in the mood for the whole Princess shtick. I tell the Boss that if he’s got a problem with that, he should talk to his girlfriend. Because she is the one who’s rattling my cage.
“I’m afraid to ask,” he says with a guilty look on his face. Those dimples pop out of his luscious cheeks and he casually hooks a thumb in the front belt-loop of his jeans, effectively pulling them low enough to capture my imagination.
I’m completely disarmed. So I tell him about Erica’s offer and all the nefarious reasons behind her “generosity.” I don’t mean to get emotional. But something about the Boss’s soft blue eyes makes me want to open up. I let my voice get shaky as I describe the events of yesterday’s horrific schooling session.
A look of sympathy and understanding spreads across the Boss’s rugged face. “You can’t keep riding Chocolates like a racehorse and expect him to go like a hunter.”
“Great advice,” I say, “Only I already tried to ride him like a hunter and I fell on my butt!”
“Then don’t do that, either,” he says. “Just give him support when he needs it and take it away as soon as he starts to figure things out.”
Suddenly, it occurs to me that I’ve never taught a horse how to do anything before. They’ve always been the ones teaching me. No wonder I was so lost yesterday. I had no idea what I was doing. I’ve always said that the hallmark of a great trainer is the ability to tell his rider exactly what she needs to hear at the exact moment she needs to hear it. And that’s what the Boss just did. No wonder big beautiful animals are so eager to run fast for him.
Now if only the Boss would say the magic words that would make all my aches and pains go away. Inst
ead, he hands me a thick crop and delivers a hard slap to my backside before sending me off to battle with his horses. I’m not saying that a nice long seaweed rub wouldn’t hit the spot right about now. But it does feel good to know that I’m tough enough to do this job.
I smile at the Boss and give him a wink. I’ll run as fast as you want, Boss. As fast as you want.
I REPLAY THE BOSS’S WORDS IN MY HEAD as Chocolates and I carve out sloppy serpentines in the arena sand. I’m trying to teach this horse how to bend his body softly around the turns from nose to tail like a good little hunter. We look like two drunken sailors lost at sea, and we are not likely to find dry land anytime soon. I’m trying to remain positive here, but the two chuckling Dressage Queens lurking in the corner aren’t helping. Then it starts to rain. I aim Chocolates in the direction of the barn. The last thing I need right now is for the bridle I spent ten hours oiling to get drenched.
But Emily is not happy about my decision to end this training session on a dry note. “I don’t care if it’s raining, Margaret. We’ve got a clinic in less than two weeks and you both look terrible. Now get back in the arena and pick up a left lead canter.”
I had no idea that someone wearing a purple plastic schooling helmet could command such immediate and unwavering respect from me. Let me make one thing clear, I HATE RIDING IN THE RAIN. It’s cold, it’s sloppy and any well-conditioned saddle will bleed all over your breeches. But before I know what hit me, I’m back on Chocolates, struggling to pick up a left lead canter while Emily barks orders at me through the driving rain. Chocolates is just as frustrated with his situation as I am. He reluctantly picks up the canter and waits until we reach the soggiest part of the arena to dump me and then take off in a rider-less victory lap.
Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour Page 10