Pastures New

by Parker Foye

  Pastures New

  By Parker Foye

  After a successful career as Illustrious Ruckus, three-time winner of the British Open, James Kirby has hung up his saddle. His experience as a horse in the eventing world doesn’t exactly translate to two legs, and he’s struggling to move on. James’s quiet days at the family farm with his sister, Matilda, are interrupted by Archie Ievins, a sports journalist visiting to interview Matilda and snap a few photos of Illustrious Ruckus. Archie quickly endears himself to the family and to “Ruckus,” and James falls head over hooves—only to be brought up short when his ex-boyfriend threatens to expose James’s secret. How can James start something new when he has four legs threatening to come out of the closet?

  WHEN ILLUSTRIOUS Ruckus, three-time winner of the British Eventing Open Championship, retired from the world of eventing, there was an article in Horse & Hound, a spot on Horse & Country, and his rider was contacted for interviews by bloggers both amateur and professional from across the eventing world. People sent flowers.

  James Kirby hated flowers.

  “It’s not like I’m dead, Tils,” James said. He was sitting at his sister’s kitchen table and picking petals off a chrysanthemum, his fingertips staining pink. “Or that I’m going to eat the damn things. What’s the point?”

  Tilly, James’s sister and the former rider of Illustrious Ruckus, threw the damp dishcloth she’d been using at James. She rested her fists on her hips, a glare darkening her face.

  “The point is to be nice, you ungrateful nag. People like Ruckus.” She plucked the dishcloth off James’s head and scrubbed his face. “Not like you, you bloody—”

  “Leave off it!” James flailed and shoved away from the table with a screech of wooden legs on tile. “Matilda!”

  He was too slow to escape. Tilly caught up with him at the doorway, trapping him against the wall, using her big-sister powers and trying to stuff the manky dishcloth into his mouth. James kept spitting it out and was half a minute from resorting to hair pulling when there came a patter of little feet and a small hand tugging at his jeans. He composed his very best grown-up face and looked down at Jessica, Tilly’s daughter. She had her riding helmet on and was reaching for him, expectant.

  “Uncle James, will you please come play knights? Outside.”

  James spat out the dishcloth. Tilly coughed, moving back to the sink like she hadn’t been trying to smother him, and resumed washing dishes. She was a terrible sister.

  James hauled Jessica up to his hip, feeling his back protest; at four, she was getting too big for him to carry around in human form. That wasn’t what she wanted, though. “Outside” meant she wanted to run.

  They headed out to the training yard, the dirt spongy thanks to a recent bout of rain, and James inhaled the fresh scent of encroaching autumn. The Kirby family had kept horses in these stables for generations, and James had grown up with Northumberland soil under both boots and hooves. He hoped Jessica would keep on with the family tradition, since his own luck in the family department was distinctly unimpressive; it was a lot of pressure to place on little shoulders, and he felt like a shitheel when he found himself trying to gauge if the four-year-old Jessica would grow up to be a championship rider.

  Or, continuing in the other family tradition, if she would grow up and find herself with hooves. There was always a chance, though it decreased the older she got without whinnying awake one morning. Shifting skipped generations: before James the last shifter in the family was his grandmother, who won the Grand National in 1970 as Illustrious Sands. James’s mother hadn’t been a shifter, but she’d been a keen rider and obsessed with making champions of her children. Once James woke in a tangle, having acquired more legs overnight, the direction of his and Tilly’s life had been decided: champions or bust.

  And they’d been champions, filling the farm’s trophy cabinet and continuing the Kirby legacy, but Tilly called time before they burned out and reached “bust.” Illustrious Ruckus retired from eventing while his rider stepped back to focus on her family. And James? James was left to twiddle his hooves.

  “Uncle James,” Jessica said, pulling on his shirt for attention. “You said we could ride.”

  Amendment: James was left to twiddle his hooves and entertain his niece.

  “Okay, all right. Where are we going today?” James swung Jessica on his shoulders, and she squealed, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. He jiggled her lightly, hoping she’d let go. “Does my knight have any direction in mind?”

  She giggled, kicking her heels against his shoulders. “Mud!”

  “Very well, mud it is.”

  First rotating one ankle, then the other, James tried to pretend he was going to be a grown-up and not take Jessica through the muddiest part of the trails. Think of Tilly’s reaction. Think of how long I’ll have dirt under my nails. James grinned. Think of how fast I’m going to run.

  James reached for the change. Jessica shrieked, a high-pitched sound that turned into a bout of giggles when she found herself holding onto tangles of chestnut mane. James reacquainted himself with his Ruckus parts until it was like he’d never been any other creature. Jessica settled herself and patted his neck.

  “Charge, Uncle James!”

  James charged.

  ONE THOROUGH investigation of the trails around Kirby House Farm—and corresponding dousing with mud—later, James knelt to let Jessica slide to the ground with a small thump and tired giggle. She threw her arms as far around his neck as she could reach and patted him with more enthusiasm than care.

  “Thank you, Uncle James,” she said, dutiful, before heading for the house and calling for her mother. James felt a little guilty about the length of their ride, as he’d gotten carried away stretching his legs, but he thought he’d managed to keep to the time he and Tilly had agreed when they’d reviewed Jessica’s training. Someone should invent wristwatches for horses; that would solve his problem.

  Although, admittedly, it might start one or two.

  Once Jessica was safely inside, James released his hold on his shape and slumped out on the dirt. Sweat prickled over his naked skin. By design, the stables were isolated enough there was little chance of any visitors, and Tilly knew to let James wait out the shift in his own time. He could lie in the yard until―

  “Jamie, are you out there? We have a visitor!”

  Until Tilly told him about the fucking visitor. Holy shit, she was the worst sister in the history of siblinghood.

  James scrambled to his feet and instantly regretted it. Naked, James. Naked. Panicked, he glanced around the yard for his clothes; when he shifted, his clothes dropped away, as if there were an instant between man-shape and horse-shape when there was no James at all. Tilly had asked all sorts of questions through the years about that moment, but James had no answers to give. He had no answers about the whole shape-shifting routine, and neither had his grandmother or any of their family before her.

  The dubious science of shape-shifting wouldn’t help him find his clothes. Where the bloody hell were―James spotted his clothes tossed over the yard fence, boots tucked neatly beneath. Tilly must have come outside while he and Jessica were riding, which meant she’d known the whole time about the visitor and hadn’t bothered to tell him. Thanks, Matilda.

  James tugged on his clothes and shoved his feet into his boots with a grimace. Shoes felt weird after having hooves, like his ankles were the wrong shape. He kicked at the dirt once or twice to get used to his people parts and headed for the house, trying to dig up some manners for their guest on the way.

  His plastic host smile became sincere when he saw the man sitting on their couch. Dressed in a cardigan, jeans, and boots that had never met a field, the man had delicate features emphasized by thick-framed glasses that
magnified the obscenely lush sweep of his lashes. James wanted to steal him away before Tilly started her big-sister act and ruined any chance he might have, but he was probably already too late.

  He should stop staring. The staring wouldn’t help. Neither would his off-season beard.

  “Hi,” James said, much too late. This was the worst. He could see Tilly’s shoulders shaking with repressed laughter as he made an absolute tit of himself.

  The man pushed his glasses up his nose to give James a thorough once-over that made James’s entire body warm. Christ, that delicate frame hid a smirking ton of confidence. James was screwed every way but literally.

  “Hi, I’m Archie Ievins, from Eventing Quarterly. Do you work with Matilda?”

  When Archie turned around to include her in the introductions, Tilly sobered and smiled her collected competition smile. Poser.

  “This is my brother, James. He’s not the chief trainer—that’s Sanjit, my husband—but he’s an integral part of the team.” Her expression brightened, and James realized she was up to mischief. “You should speak to him for your article, get the insider view! What do you think, Jamie, wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Article?” James asked, smile frozen on his face. “What article?”

  Archie twisted around on the couch, throwing his arm along the back so his hand brushed against James’s leg. James reminded himself to blink. “I’m doing a series of profiles on retired riders,” Archie said. “Kind of ‘where are they now’ meets ‘life after eventing.’ My editor suggested a piece with Matilda would be a good start, since she’s just beginning her retirement, and Matilda kindly agreed.” He pushed his glasses up again. “We’d focus on Illustrious Ruckus as well, of course.”

  “Of course,” Tilly echoed, because she was a terrible person. “So, Jamie. Will you help?”

  Feeling strange, James pointed toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make a sandwich. Be right back.”

  The kitchen wasn’t far enough from the living room; he could hear Archie’s low voice and Tilly’s soft responses as they resumed chatting. James gathered fixings for a sandwich with more clunking than strictly necessary. What was this about an article? And an article focused on Tilly no less? She was an excellent rider with a long and successful career, so what? Illustrious Ruckus was a championship horse; where the fuck was his article?

  It didn’t matter that horses couldn’t talk. It was the principle of the thing.

  “The principle,” he muttered, spreading butter on bread in jerky motions.

  A knock sounded on the doorframe, making him start and get butter on his thumb. Crap, why did he have so many fingers? James brushed his hand on his jeans and glared halfheartedly over his shoulder at Sanjit, Tilly’s husband.

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to check everything was okay. I thought I could smell brains melting.”

  Sanjit thought he was hilarious. It was something he and Tilly had in common.

  Putting down the knife he was gripping too hard, James abandoned his half-finished sandwich to lean against the kitchen counter. He folded his arms across his chest and tipped his head in the direction of the living room.

  “Did you hear about that?” he asked. “Are you in on it?”

  Sanjit shook his head, pushing James aside to flick the kettle on to boil. “Nothing to do with me. You know I don’t divulge my training secrets.”

  Because he had no training secrets, not for Illustrious Ruckus at any rate. Sanjit led the training for Kirby House Farm’s nonpeople horses, but he’d excused himself from training Ruckus even before James had the chance to protest, saying it would be weird. Sanjit was irritatingly reasonable that way.

  The kettle began to rumble, and James shifted his weight. He didn’t want to return to the living room, having already made a tit of himself. Twice in one hour was his absolute limit. He needed to focus to avoid further embarrassing himself.

  “Are you going to talk to him or just hide in here?” Sanjit asked when James didn’t make a move. “And on a related note, when are you moving out of my house?”

  And there was James’s focus—avoiding this conversation. He pushed away from the counter. He could finish his sandwich later.

  “Good talk, Sanjit. Thanks!”

  James returned to the living room, taking a seat on the remaining couch. Archie broke off midsentence to smile at him, and it was like being hit in the face with the sun. James felt hot all over and weak in the knees, including those he wasn’t currently wearing.

  “James, good to catch you. I was about to head out,” Archie said. “I need to consult with my editor about Matilda’s ideas for the article.”

  Tilly grinned at James. “I said you’d give Archie a tour of the yard tomorrow. How’s that? You can tell him about the training school.”

  James didn’t know what the hell Tilly was talking about, but he nodded anyway. He was still nodding when Archie unfolded from the couch, long-limbed and graceful, and stretched out his hand to James. James stared at the proffered hand a beat too long before standing up and taking it. Archie’s skin was warm, his grip firm.

  “I’m looking forward to the tour, and—” Archie brushed James’s temple, retrieving a leaf he held out in his slim fingers. “You had something in your hair.”

  Belatedly James remembered he’d been galloping around the trails and probably stank of horse. When he reached to take the leaf from Archie, James noted the crescent of dirt under his nails—possibly he should’ve washed his hands before making the sandwich—and felt heat rise to his face. If the ground could open up and swallow him, this would be a great time for that. A little help, universe?

  The universe didn’t oblige. James crushed the leaf in his fist, brushing it from his hands with a weak smile. He escorted Archie to the front door and waved him off at the doorstep, promising to meet at eleven the next morning—yes, he was looking forward to it as well—face burning all the while.

  Once Archie had gotten in his car and driven away, leaving the imprint of his grin in James’s mind like a sunspot, James closed the door and thumped his head against it until his face regained a normal temperature.

  “That was smooth, Jamie.”

  “Very smooth,” Sanjit chimed in with his wife.

  An enthusiastic tackle around his calves reassured James of Jessica’s love and appreciation even if her parents were terrible people. He scooped Jessica up, getting a noseful of fruity shampoo, and hugged her close before passing her to Sanjit. Jessica’s pout was enormous.

  “But knights.”

  “Some of us haven’t had our post-mud showers yet, Sir Jessica,” he said. He felt gross.

  “Some of us can tell,” Tilly said, eyebrows raised and smirk turned up to eleven.

  James didn’t stick his tongue out, because he was a grown man, but he did bump his shoulder into Tilly when he brushed past on his way to the kitchen to wash his hands and finish his sandwich. Because the hallway was narrow. No other reason.

  BREAKFAST THE next day found James squeaky clean and in the nicest of his yard clothes: jeans without horse-stink in the weave, a T-shirt and overshirt with only two rips between them, and his favorite riding boots. He’d even shaved. There were no leaves on his person.

  “Look who’s come out of retirement for the journalist!” Tilly needled when James entered the kitchen.

  More flowers had been delivered, and James moved a vase out of the way as he took a seat at the table.

  “Shut it,” James said, reaching across to steal a slice of Tilly’s toast.

  She slapped his hand and pulled the plate out of his reach, glaring at him from over her laptop. “Make your own breakfast. You’re not a child.”

  “I’m a British Open champion, Tils. I can’t be expected to make my own breakfast.”

  Tilly rolled her eyes and turned her attention to her laptop. “That’s getting really old, you know. Anyway, it’s not you that Archie”—she said his name in a singsong—“wants to
interview, is it? You should be making me breakfast, using that argument.”

  James spluttered around his mouthful of toast. “But I did all the work!”

  “And you can tell him that if you like. I won’t stop you, or the cart when they come to take you away. This was your idea in the first place, remember?”

  “This was mother’s idea.”

  Tilly shut her laptop with a sharp motion and pushed away from the table, glaring down at him from her temporary height advantage. “Mother’s been dead for years, Jamie. Take responsibility for your own fucking decisions, you’re a grown man.”

  She left the kitchen in a brisk clip of heels, and James noticed she was wearing her “professional” outfit of a gray dress and shoes that should be registered weapons. Crap, he’d missed something important. What was it she’d said about a training school yesterday? He needed to start paying attention to these things.

  “And when are you moving out, you no-good glue factory?” Tilly shouted as a parting shot, stomping upstairs.

  Ugh. James pulled across Tilly’s abandoned plate and finished her toast. Waste not, want not.

  James had been living in Tilly and Sanjit’s guest room for the better part of a month, since they’d returned from Gatcombe Park. Visiting Tilly and Sanjit was his usual post-competition routine, to celebrate or commiserate in company, but the latest visit extended for weeks as James delayed returning to his empty flat and taking the first steps into life after retirement. He was, he could admit to himself, nervous about the shape his life would take without the structure of the event calendar and associated training. Considering he’d spent the last few weeks in his older sister’s house, eating her food and galloping through their ancestral trails, James wasn’t optimistic about his ability to move on.

  Maybe it was for the best that Eventing Quarterly couldn’t interview Illustrious Ruckus. It would be a depressing read.

  This wasn’t helping. James stowed Tilly’s dishes in the sink, made himself a coffee with too much sugar—take that, competition diet—and sat down to nose through the collection of cards that accompanied the flowers. The messages were repetitive, sincere but trite sentiment, with the occasional note in childish handwriting that made him smile, and James had almost reached the bottom of the stack when he came across a plain black card. The color seemed like a lack of imagination until he read the message: “To Illustrious Ruckus and his sister. Thinking of you, Simon.”