Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour

by Genevieve Dutil

  I don’t know who makes me angrier: Emily for making me ride in the rain, or dog meat over here for making me the butt of his jokes. Chocolates eventually lets Emily catch him. I storm over with a sense of purpose I haven’t had since the last time I could afford to splurge at Mary’s “Year End French Leather Blow-Out”. I hop back on Chocolates without a second thought as to how long it’s going to take me to get the mud out of the seams of my saddle. I will get a left lead canter out of this horse. I don’t care how hard it rains or how long it takes.

  A half hour later, I’m victorious. I’m not sure if that’s rainwater, sweat or tears pouring down my face, but it sure tastes sweet.

  DAY THREE

  I wake up at 4 AM to the sound of driving rain. I should have the day off from Winning Edge, right? Wrong. The Boss calls first thing in the morning to inform me that the footing on the track is fine. “Get your butt in the office, Princess.”

  Five hours of galloping in wet jeans presents all kinds of new chafing problems that no amount of “Monkey Butt” powder can possibly solve. The lady’s locker room is closed for repairs and the nearest available restroom is clear across the farm. The wet denim on my thighs feels like sandpaper on my delicate appendages. I don’t think I have the fortitude to make that long walk to the bathroom and I’m already running late for my schooling session with Emily.

  I quickly dart into the first empty stall I can find, peel off my jeans and apply the appropriate bandages. In my haste, I thoughtlessly deposit my wet jeans on the dirt floor of this impromptu changing room. I’m five bandages short of covering all my wounds. I can’t possibly put muddy jeans back on my body without risking infection. This is quite a pickle.

  Fortunately, I’ve got a clean pair of breeches in the trunk of my car, which I estimate to be seven hundred meters away. Streaking across a proper hunter/jumper training facility is not something the old Margaret Fletcher would ever consider doing. But life at Winning Edge is a whole lot looser. Everyone is always encouraging me to let my hair down. So why not?

  I peek my head out the Dutch door of my stall and confirm that the coast is clear. After a quick mental tally of everyone that might be in danger of seeing the half-naked dash to my car, I make the hasty decision to go for it. I’ve never been much of a runner. But the thought of being caught in my skivvies by one of the sketchier characters of Winning Edge Farms has me striding out like a champion thoroughbred.

  “Princess?” I hear, seconds into my near-naked parade across the property.

  Panicked, I execute a perfect swan dive through the open widow of my awaiting vehicle, huddling for cover in the nook of my backseat. The sound of my heart beating out of my chest is interrupted by a gentle knock on the driver’s side window.

  “Is everything OK, Princess?”

  I flip through my mental calendar, trying to recall the exact date of my last encounter with a razor. Once I determine that there is absolutely no way to turn this into a sexy situation, I meekly say, “Um, Boss would you be so kind as to retrieve the breeches from the trunk of my car and throw them through the open window.”

  Without a word, he obliges and moments later, I emerge from my hiding place, fully-clothed, all four cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The Boss looks pretty flushed himself. Maybe I underestimated the erotic potential here. I crack a mischievous smile and say, “Sorry, Boss I thought I was covered.”

  The Boss’s cheeks go from red to deep crimson as he struggles with the English language. “I didn’t mean to look. It’s just. I thought. I thought you were in trouble or something. You were running so fast.”

  I enjoy watching him fumble awkwardly. “No harm, no foul, Boss,” I say, “I’m just trying to stop being so uptight.” With that, Margaret Fletcher drives off before he has a chance to catch his breath. No harm, no foul indeed.

  I’M STILL TINGLING WITH EXCITEMENT from my unplanned, unclothed interlude with the Boss. Nothing can bring me down. Not even Emily’s suggestion that we take Chocolates out for a trail ride. The arena at Green Acres is a mud pit and Chocolates can’t afford to miss a single day of training. Ugh, the trail. What kind of productive training could possibly be accomplished on the trail? It sounds so long, slow and boring. Can’t we just take a day off so I can go home and think up another situation that ends with me taking my pants off in front of the Boss? As usual, Emily remains an impenetrable force of “no fun allowed”.

  I find Emily in the barn aisle cavorting with a colorfully-dressed character named Sara. Sara is an endurance rider. Her horses know these trails inside and out, and Emily always begs her to tag along when she takes a prospect out for the first time. My eyes are having a hard enough time adjusting to Sara’s black spandex pants with hot pink accents. But then she starts extracting tack from her hot pink plastic “trunk”. This is not the first time I’ve been confronted by the horrors of synthetic leather. But a nylon bridle? That can’t be safe. And please tell me those cotton lead ropes are not her reins. No wonder that Arab of hers looks so startled. I can feel Emily judging me as I stare at this pair with a gaping mouth. So I do my best to keep it shut and train my eyes on the task of tacking up Chocolates.

  The three of us head out to the trail in silence. (That would still be stunned silence on my part.) Sara makes a stab at striking up conversation, saying, “Emily told me that you used to be a big deal on the Hunter/Jumper circuit.”

  I can see my reflection in Sara’s “breeches” as I nod my head.

  But when she tells me that she also used to do the Hunters, I involuntarily snort in disbelief. I can see Emily cringe out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t mean to react so rudely. But the only thing more shocking than a nylon bridle is the idea that Little Miss Circus Pants here ever did the Hunters. And when she insists that she once brought home a ribbon at Devon, I can’t help but blurt out, “Impossible!”

  Emily tells Sara that she will have to excuse me, as I am just now learning how to be tolerant of people who don’t wear their hair in a hairnet. Very funny.

  Surprisingly, Sara comes to my defense and admits that there was a time when she too would have been startled by a nylon bridle. That’s very gracious coming from a girl dressed like a Japanese cartoon. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. After all, I can only imagine what Margaret, the sixteen-year-old Hunter Princess, would think about my current incarnation. Riding in jeans, running around naked in public, drinking one too many shots of tequila and flirting with my boss? Nope, the old Margaret Fletcher wouldn’t approve of pretty much everything about my new Gallop Girl lifestyle.

  I’m beginning to think that maybe Sara and I have more in common than her garish appearance suggests. So, I ask if her father lost all his money, too.

  It takes a good ten minutes before the laughter subsides. Apparently, Sara’s father never had any money. At least not in the amount that my trainers insisted is required to bring home a ribbon at Devon. Sara goes on to describe her Hunter-on-a-budget lifestyle. The nights spent sleeping in a trailer eating string cheese and exchanging manual labor for coaching at shows. It all sounds like the perfect little Cinderella story, except…

  “I’m having a hard time believing that there are enough stalls in the world to muck your way to a ribbon at Devon,” I say.

  Emily butts in to explain that what Sara lacked in funds, she made up for in raw talent and the ability to recognize the same in young horses. Sara gets all shy and says, “Emily is exaggerating.” But then Rainbow Brite cracks a smile. “I do have to admit that there is nothing more satisfying then finding that diamond in the rough and then beating all the fancy imports with something you paid a dollar for.”

  In other words, Sara is the polar opposite of someone like Margaret “I wouldn’t be anywhere without Daddy’s money” Fletcher. All right, Emily. I get it. Message loud and clear. You brought me on this trail ride to tell me that you don’t think I have what it takes to give our green prospect the mileage he needs to get sold. Let me guess: Sara here is just itching
to ditch her disco breeches and get back in the Hunter ring. Maybe it would be best if I handed over the reins.

  Sara and Emily are too busy making jokes about my obsessive-compulsive desire to monogram saddle pads to notice my quiet fuming. I’m not sure how to handle this situation. I do my best to ignore them and focus on the natural beauty surrounding me. Deep breath, Margaret. No reason to let the Goodwill Twins ruin an otherwise lovely afternoon on horseback.

  Growing up, trail riding was not something I was encouraged to do. It was always “Get up on your horse and get your heels down! Focus on your fence!” It’s kind of nice to amble along peacefully without the pressure to perform. Then it occurs to me that Chocolates and I have crossed quite a few fallen tree branches in the past twenty-five minutes. If I remember correctly, he stepped over each one without a second thought. Look over there. That’s a pretty big puddle up ahead.

  I don’t know what comes over me. Margaret Fletcher is not prone to impulsive acts of daring. But I pick up a quiet canter and aim Chocolates for that puddle, knowing full well that there is a good chance he might drop me in the middle of it. Five strides out, I start to feel him question my judgment. “I don’t know, lady. That looks like a hole to China if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Emily screams from five paces behind, “Margaret Fletcher, what do you think you’re doing?”

  You know what, Emily? You’re right. I have no idea what I’m doing. Did you hear that railbirds? It’s all true! Margaret Fletcher is nothing special without a six-figure horse between her legs.

  Three strides before puddle, I make a deal with Chocolates. Dump me in the puddle, I’ll take the hint and quit before I make an even bigger fool of myself. But if you find it in your heart to trust me, even though I might make some mistakes along the way, I’ll return the favor.

  I can feel the hesitation in Chocolate’s body all the way to the base of the puddle. A part of me is hoping to take a mud bath and put this whole embarrassing mess behind me. But together, Chocolates and I sail over it in perfect hunter form.

  I’m speechless. I’ve jumped five-foot fences on horses that cost well into the six figures. I’ve won ribbons in some of the most prestigious arenas in the equestrian world. But I have never felt anything quite as exhilarating as jumping that muddy puddle on the racetrack reject I bought for a dollar.

  For the first time since my whole life started falling apart, I feel like the luckiest girl in the whole world.

  CHAPTER 12

  ~ Emily drops the ball ~

  It’s the morning of Margaret’s triumphant return to the horse world for people who matter. Her words, not mine. I, of course, see things differently. And I am pretty sure that today is the day that Margaret Fletcher finally gets knocked down a peg or two. I’m not proud of myself for secretly looking forward to the moment when she realizes that she’s in over her head. I suppose it’s in my best interest for Margaret to do really well. It’s just there is no way that will happen. The past two weeks have been a disaster. That puddle is the only “fence” they’ve jumped together. Hardly adequate preparation to ride in front of the most intolerant horse trainer ever known to mankind.

  The clock keeps ticking and Margaret is nowhere to be seen. I’m starting to get nervous. We only have twenty minutes to wrap Chocolate’s legs, load the hay, pack the tack room and hitch up the trailer. And after all that lecturing from her! “Emily, I don’t know if you’ve ever ridden in front of someone of Geoff Maurice’s caliber. He has exacting standards! Everything has to be perfect from the shine on my boots to the sparkle on my spurs. Anything less than perfection is INSUFFICIENT!” I may not polish my spurs or spend an hour rubbing down my boots, but I show up on time. I am pretty sure that for a man of Geoff Maurice’s caliber anything less is INSUFFICIENT!

  I hook up the trailer all by myself. Still no sign of Margaret. That girl is too persnickety to be anything but perfectly punctual. A sick feeling creeps into my stomach and I’m starting to feel bad for cursing her name when I dropped the trailer ramp on my foot. Maybe she’s dead. Or more likely, having second thoughts about this whole clinic situation. She’s probably too embarrassed to admit that she’s bailing. Not that I blame her. Margaret and Chocolates are not ready to ride in front of the likes of Geoff Maurice. They can barely hold it together in an arena smaller than a gallop track. Part of me admires the guts it takes to even think about riding a green horse like Chocolates in this clinic. Yes, it would have been brave. But it also would have been reckless. The last thing Chocolates needs right now is to find out that he might not be good enough. I’m glad Margaret finally came to her senses.

  My phone rings and all my good thoughts about Margaret’s newfound pragmatism are shattered by the sound of her screaming, “What do you mean you haven’t left the farm yet? Emily, I have to be in the arena in thirty minutes! MOVE IT!”

  Wow. I can’t believe I actually gave her the benefit of the doubt. Margaret Fletcher isn’t absent because she suddenly feared that she was in danger of over-facing her horse in a misguided quest to satisfy her ego. No, Margaret Fletcher is absent because it never occurred to her that it might be the responsibility of someone of her caliber to get her OWN DAMN HORSE to the clinic that she has no business riding in to begin with!

  I want to like Margaret. I really do. But it’s times like this, times when I’m forced to ignore the persistent throbbing in my foot as I race around like a demon to come to her rescue as she screams, “THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!!!”, that I wonder if we can ever truly be friends.

  CHAPTER 13

  ~ Margaret finds her winning edge ~

  I can’t believe Emily screwed this up! Why would I meet her at Green Acres? I’m already a bucket of nerves. I stayed up all night polishing my tack and ironing my breeches. I really want everything to be perfect today and now I’m in serious danger of being late to a Geoff Maurice clinic!!! Do she have any idea what a huge faux pas that is???!!!

  My aura is off the charts dark. I need to settle it back down if I have any hope of riding at my best. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and think back to my last meditation session with Daddy. Not that it went well. I blame Mother and her irrational fear that Daddy is poisoning my mind. “Margaret honey, I’m not sure these brainwashing sessions are such a good idea. Your father means well. But he’s not emotionally stable enough to provide any kind of reliable guidance. Do you really want to turn into the kind of person who wears clothing made out of illegal substances? Do they even make hemp riding pants?”

  Of course I don’t want to turn into the kind of person who wears illegal riding pants. But I hardly think that a man who says things like, “Look around you. Everything you need is here,” has the power to brainwash me. Especially when that person is standing in a windowless basement room filled with nothing but cheap beeswax meditation candles.

  But as I look around Erica Lewis’s perfect farm, I can’t help but think Daddy is right. Everything I need IS here. Lush pastures as far as the eye can see, filled with the most beautiful horseflesh that can be found on this side of “the pond.” The barn is pristine, the arenas are filled with soft felt footing and everything MATCHES PERFECTLY. Drink it all in, Margaret. Erica Lewis aside, this is where you belong.

  My aura is finally starting to turn all pink and fluffy. But then I hear the rhythmical footfalls of Erica Lewis’s latest import headed my way. And there she is, already mounted, totally prepared and completely confident about her plan to ruin my day. Her horse is gleaming, her boots are shining and her groom, Pablo, stands at attention, eager to meet her every need. One look at this equestrian princess and sheer panic is quickly replaced by the feeling of overwhelming frumpiness.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly feel more out of place, Emily rolls in on a trailer fit for transporting cattle to slaughter. Where on earth did she get this relic? Not that her normal trailer is any great shakes. But this rickety thing is just plain embarrassing. Judging by the look on poor Chocolates’ face, he’s as humili
ated as I am.

  Oh, sorry, did I mention I can SEE the look on Chocolates’ face from OUTSIDE the trailer because the walls are not even SOLID! Is this death wagon even safe? I hear the gasps and guffaws of the well-heeled Hunter Princesses as they watch Emily rattle and roll down Erica’s cobblestone driveway. Even though I share their feeling about the “vehicle” barreling towards us, I keep my jaw clenched shut.

  I don’t know why Emily is in such a grumpy mood. She’s not the one who is about to commit the biggest faux pas of her entire equestrian career. She doesn’t even meet my eye as she says, “Margaret, don’t give me that look. This “thing” is perfectly suitable and I’m not hauling my entire apartment fifteen minutes down the road because you don’t like the look of a stock trailer.”

  I don’t quite recognize the expression on Erica’s face. I think it might be speechlessness. But she somehow finds the words to ask Emily, “You live in a trailer?”

  Emily is too busy being annoyed with me to be embarrassed by the question. She just ties Chocolates to the side of her “trailer” and says, “Yes, and I sleep on a bed of straw and take baths down by the river when no one’s looking. Margaret! We’ve got five minutes to get you in the arena. Let’s get this show on the road!”

  I suppose I should be happy that my groom understands the importance of swift action in this circumstance. Given Emily’s behavior, however, I would rather be left to my own devices. Let me try to illustrate the severity of the situation. Pablo’s appearance is smart and workmanlike: pressed khakis, a neatly tucked-in polo shirt and a proper belt. Emily is dressed in alfalfa hay, horse slobber and stall bedding. Pablo swiftly and efficiently gives Erica’s already perfectly-polished boots a final wipe-down from the very tip of their Spanish tops to very bottom of their soles. Emily limps along like a wounded animal, barking orders with the delicate tact of a truck stop waitress. While Pablo carefully applies a final coat of hoof polish on all four corners of Erica’s mount, Emily slaps tack on poor Chocolates like she’s making a ham sandwich.