Dark Horse

by J. Carson Black

  Dakota had seen the filly close up twice before in the last few days, and each time she had the same reaction. Excitement tingled in her stomach and goose bumps fanned out on her arms. A recognition of excellence vibrated in her soul with the perfect sonority of a tuning fork.

  She was so taken aback by the feeling—again—that for a moment she did not register the sound of the loudspeaker. “There will be a break of ten minutes.”

  People began emerging from the tent. Several of them made for the dark filly’s stall. Reluctantly, Dakota left her, more confused than ever. She wandered through the barns, mindful that her decision might well have been the wrong one. Fortunately, she didn’t run into Clay and his new love interest.

  Ten minutes later, she found a seat toward the back of the tent. Several rows ahead, she could see Clay seated next to Rita.

  Again she felt the wave of grief crash into her. Why did she still feel this way? Clay had every right to keep company with any woman who appealed to him. But when she saw Rita lean against Clay, her mouth pressed intimately to his ear, Dakota felt as if she’d been blindsided.

  “Number twenty-six,” the auctioneer said. “This is a Something Wicked colt out of the Three O’s mare, Trudy C.” Dakota glanced at her program and her heart raced. Shameless was number thirty-one.

  Two other colts and a broodmare were led through the ring to unenthusiastic bidding. Maybe the filly would go for peanuts, too. Dakota felt an odd stirring of hope.

  “Number thirty is Darkscope, an eleven-year-old stallion by Certain Something out of Waterwitch. He’s a full brother to Something Wicked, and has earned a total of $9,583 on the track. Who wants to start the bidding at five thousand?”

  Dakota doubted there would be any takers. Although Darkscope was a handsome horse—in fact, he bore a striking resemblance to Something Wicked—he had been a big disappointment.

  The gavel cracked, shaking Dakota from her reverie. “Sold to Dan Bolin for three thousand five hundred dollars,” the auctioneer said, “Mr. Bolin, you sure got yourself a deal.”

  Dakota watched as the bay stallion left the ring. She was surprised that Dan Bolin, the man who ran Black Oak’s breeding operation, would waste his money on Darkscope. He, of all people, should know that even though Darkscope was a full brother to Something Wicked, he had proved to be a dud in the breeding shed as well as on the track.

  She didn’t think any more of it, because a hush had come over the crowd. The filly was up next.

  The auctioneer cleared his throat and looked at the crowd. Dakota became aware that she was clutching her program in a death grip.

  “The next horse on the program is number thirty-one, a dark bay or brown filly by Something Wicked and out of the Dash for Cash mare, Dash to Judgment. She is nominated to the Ruidoso, the Rainbow, and the All American Futurities. Now folks, this here is the best bargain at this sale. She’s ready to go. Bill, you go on, bring in Shameless now and show these good folks what I’m talkin’ about. I’m starting the bidding at ten thousand.”

  Considering that several of the Black Oak horses had sold for a thousand dollars or less made this a big deal.

  From the moment the filly stepped into the ring, there was only Dakota and Shameless, the distance between them telescoped until Dakota fancied she heard the filly’s hoofs patter on the tanbark like cats’ feet.

  “Ten, ten, who’ll give me ten thousand? Seven? Is that all you’re gonna offer for this fine filly? I’m embarrassed for you, that’s what I am. You are insulting this filly. Now folks. I know you’re thinking about Something Wicked’s get having their share of lameness. But this filly is sound as a dollar. We’ve got the x-rays to prove it. Ask the doc over there. He’ll tell you. Who’ll give me ten? Seven? All right, seven, then. Seven, seven, who’ll give me ten? This filly is nominated for the All American, folks. She could win the Ruidoso three months from now, and then you’ll be cryin’ in your beer. Eight thousand, now that’s more like it. Eight, eight, ah gimme ten—lady in the black I got eight-five, gotta eight- five, gotta eight-five gimme ten. Over there I got nine, nine, gotta nine, gimme that ten thousand, hep-de-hep-de ten thousand, makin’ it hep-de-hep de ten-thousand how ‘bout twelve. Twelve thousand, over there, I see you Mister Earle. Gimme that fifteen thousand, gimme fifteen, fifteen, I gotta fifteen thousand fifteen fifteen who’ll gimme seventeen—”

  Rita lifted her program. What did a man like Clay see in that woman? Aside from the fact that she looked as if she’d stepped off a Cosmopolitan cover?

  Dakota couldn’t conceive of Rita owning her father’s horse,

  “I gotta seventeen, seventeen, who’ll gimme eighteen— eighteen! Who’ll gimme twenty?”

  No one was biting.

  “Anybody else? Come on, folks, anyone wanna steal this fine filly? All right. Seventeen thousand going once—”

  Rita would get Shameless.

  “Going twice—Is that a bid, ma’am?”

  The person in front of her swiveled in his chair and caught Dakota’s eye. He wasn’t the only one.

  The bid spotter pointed right at her. She realized her hand hung up in the air like some incredible weight creaking on overloaded pulleys.

  “Eighteen! I gotta eighteen. Miss McAllister, I got eighteen, gimme twenty—”

  Panic beat frantic wings in her throat. What was she thinking of?

  Rita’s rolled program shot up in the air, and relief flooded through Dakota. It was all right, all right, she was off the hook.

  “Twenty thousand. Is that all you’ll pay for this fine filly? She’s ready to go, folks, can’t you see that?” The auctioneer shrugged. “All right. It’s your funeral. Going once, going twice—

  She saw her father leaning toward the camera, plaid shirt rolled up on tanned arms . . . This is the one, Dakota.

  Dakota held up one finger.

  “Twenty-one thousand, to Coke McAllister’s daughter. This is a lady’s war, am I right or wrong here, folks? What about you in the leopard sweater, leopard sweater, come one, give me two, in the leopard sweater—Twenty-two! Twenty-two I gotta gotta twenty-two who’ll gimme twenty-five!” He paused, wiped the sweat out of his eyes with a handkerchief, and stared straight at Dakota. “Miss McAllister, you gonna let this filly go for twenty-two thousand dollars?”

  Suddenly, Clay Pearce turned around in his seat. She was too far away to read the expression on his face.

  He must have encouraged Rita to buy the filly. So much for that pretty speech he’d given her earlier. Maybe he felt he’d done his duty by asking her to reconsider selling Shameless, and now he could support his girlfriend with a clear conscience. Well, she thought grimly, we’ll see about that. Doubly determined, Dakota held up three fingers.

  “I got twenty-five thousand, twenty-five, twenty-five, how about you in the leopard sweater?”

  Clay faced forward again, but not before he whispered in Rita’s ear.

  “Thirty, gimme thirty, she’s a steal for thirty,” implored the auctioneer.

  But Rita shook her head. Did Clay tell her to stop bidding?

  “Sold to Coke McAllister’s daughter!” The gavel cracked.

  Dakota wasn’t prepared for the elation she experienced. By all accounts, she should be devastated. She had just bought her own horse back for the highest price of the auction.

  THREE

  This year, Trish O’Neill’s birthday fell on a Saturday. Her parents took her and her two younger brothers to the Cactus Flower Cafe in Sonoita to celebrate. It should have been fun. Trish ordered her favorite lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich and pickle chips. But today her favorite lunch tasted like cardboard, all because of that stupid flier—the one advertising the Black Oak dispersal sale.

  She’d seen it on the way back from the bathroom. As she went by, Trish always stopped to look at the shelves marked AUNT LAURA’S PANTRY at the end of the lunch counter, which displayed embroidered fishing scenes, peanut brittle, and homemade pie. Usually, she glanced at the bulletin board on the
wall beside it, too, even though they never advertised anything interesting, just county fair horse races and bake sales.

  When she saw the flier, Trish’s stomach bolted up into her throat and nearly choked her. She’d sat down hurriedly, every extremity tingling.

  “Honey, would you like to open your presents before we have the cake?” her mom asked.

  Trish nodded. That queer jangly feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. She thought she might just hurl her favorite lunch right up.

  Her father leaned forward. “Is something wrong, sweet pea?”

  She swallowed and smiled faintly. “No. Nothing.” She reached for the gift bag, halfheartedly picked through the tissue paper inside, and withdrew a makeup set.

  “What do you think?” Her mother was beaming. “This is your Sweet Sixteen, so we thought we’d get you something a little more adult.”

  “It’s great.” What her mother didn’t know was that she had been wearing makeup since the sixth grade. Just another dirty, sneaky lie in a whole shitload of them. As she opened the rest of her presents, Trish tried not to think about the biggest lie of all, but it was impossible.

  It lived with her every day and every night. It got so that she couldn’t look anyone in the eye. She was afraid of the men she saw in town, most of whom were friends of her father’s, people she’d known all her life. Any one of their friendly faces could be a mask.

  She wanted to scream at them: “I don’t know who you are! I don’t know!”

  She’d actually thought today would be different. The place had been empty when they came in, and she sincerely wished it would stay that way. The only other person in the cafe other than her family was the waitress. The waitress was safe . . . maybe.

  Coming to the Cactus Flower Cafe on her birthday was a tradition. The idea of spending her birthday as she had the last several birthdays was comforting, familiar. It was almost as if she could go backward from that night three weeks ago, back to Before. Before she lost her virginity to Billy Taylor, before she saw what happened on Washboard Road.

  Some part of Trish knew that the burden she carried was too heavy for a sixteen-year-old. But what could she do? She’d promised Billy she wouldn’t tell. There were good reasons for not telling.

  Very good reasons.

  “Who’s this from?” Dad asked, handing Trish a sloppily wrapped gift.

  Ken, who was only a year younger, grinned sheepishly. “Mom’s gonna kill me.”

  Trish tore the present open and forgot, just for a moment, the feeling of doom that had been hanging over her head. “Guns ‘n’ Roses! All right!”

  “Ken, I told you I don’t want that kind of thing in our house,” Mrs. O’Neill said, but Trish, who had learned every nuance of her mother’s voice, could tell her rebuke was only a token one.

  The door squeaked open. Two men entered the cafe.

  Trish unconsciously braced her legs, ready to run.

  One of them walked into the side room and sat down, but his companion stopped at the O’Neill table. He stood over them, tall and menacing. Trish just knew he was scrutinizing her, maybe wondering if she was the girl who went with Billy Taylor. Billy Taylor, who drove a ‘65 Valiant.

  “Greg! How’re things going?” The voice boomed above her.

  Her father stood up. “Hey, Jimmy.” They shook hands. “It’s my little girl’s birthday today, so we’re celebrating.”

  Trish stared at her plate. If she didn’t look up, Mr. Meeghan wouldn’t see her face.

  “Her Sweet Sixteen,” Trish’s mom said.

  “Congratulations,” Mr. Meeghan said to Trish. “Kiss any boys yet?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but started talking to her dad.

  He wasn’t interested in her.

  It wasn’t him.

  Still keeping her face tilted away, Trish helped her mother clear away the wrapping paper from the table and put it into a plastic bag, half listening to the two men. They were talking about Mr. Meeghan’s new truck. Mr. Meeghan said, “Talk about pulling power. Don’t know the horses are even back there.”

  Maybe Mr. Meeghan was pretending disinterest. Maybe he wanted her to let her guard down; maybe he was using his conversation with her dad as a chance to study her.

  He did just buy a new pickup, didn’t he?

  Trish’s dad motioned out the window of the brick restaurant at the horse trailer parked out front. “You goin’ to the sale?”

  “Thought I’d pick up a couple of mares. Oughta go pretty cheap, what with people being so leery of that Something Wicked line. I’ve seen stables with a run of bad luck before. There’s nothing wrong with those horses.”

  A new pickup. To replace the bashed-in one.

  Her father lowered his voice. “Boy, that was a shock. Hard to believe Coke’s gone.”

  “Damn shame,” Mr. Meeghan said. “I guess his daughter’ll be all right, though. Heard he left behind a pretty big insurance policy.”

  Greg O’Neill grunted. “Probably all go to the bank.”

  Trish’s heart pounded so hard that she just knew everyone could hear it. She reached for one of the loose ribbons, pulled a little too hard, and knocked a ceramic mug over. Coffee ran off the table onto the floor.

  “Trish, I wish you’d be more careful!” her mother said.

  Hands shaking, face hot, Trish tried to soak up the mess with a paper napkin. “I’m sorry.” She felt like crying.

  “It’s all right.” Her mother went over to the counter and brought back a wad of napkins. Dad and Mr. Meeghan didn’t seem to notice.

  “ . . . wasn’t an accident,” Mr. Meeghan was saying.

  Trish mopped up the coffee, straining to hear.

  “You think he ran his truck into that tree on purpose?”

  “I’m just telling you what I’ve been hearing. We all know things weren’t going good.”

  Her father shook his head. “Coke? Suicide? I can’t see that. If a man wanted to kill himself, there are a lot easier ways to do it.”

  Trish felt light-headed. She saw it as if it were last night: headlights spearing the darkness, the screaming engines.

  “Guess we’ll never know for sure.” Mr. Meeghan clapped her father on the shoulder. “See you, Greg. Maddy.” He nodded to Trish’s mom. “And happy birthday, Trish. Hope it’s a good one.”

  It had been an unseasonably warm night for January. Trish had told her parents she was going to stay at her friend Dawn’s after singing in the choir concert at Patagonia High School. Dawn had agreed to back her up. The real plan had been to go with Billy Taylor to Greaterville.

  Greaterville was a ghost town. At the time, it seemed like a great adventure, going to a ghost town at night. The idea of necking in some spooky place where there might be ghosts sounded cool. And so they’d driven north on Arizona 83 and turned off on the Greaterville Road. At the fork in the road Billy turned left. It had seemed like they drove forever, and yet there was no sign of a ghost town. It was a moonless night, completely dark, and the road was so rough that they almost got stuck twice.

  Gradually it had dawned on Trish that Billy didn’t know where Greaterville was any more than she did. Uneasiness had quickly spread from the pit of her stomach to her limbs. It was isolated out there. They might have been the only people in the world. The vague notion that she was a moorless, little boat in a dark sea had solidified, until it bordered on panic. “Let’s go home,” she’d begged him.

  “It’s around here some place.”

  “I want to go home.”

  Billy had sighed. “All right.”

  Trish was relieved when they’d reached the main road. So relieved that when Billy suggested they park for a while, she’d been more than happy to oblige. They’d pulled off onto Washboard, a graded dirt road that served a couple of ranches in the area, and looked for a place to park.

  That night Trish and Billy went all the way. Aside from the guilt—that’s what you got for being raised a Catholic—she was glad they had done it at last. She lov
ed Billy; they’d be getting married in another couple of years anyway. What were they supposed to do, wait all through high school?

  To tell the truth, it had been kind of a disappointment. What was the big deal? she’d thought as she sat next to Billy in the backseat pulling on her jeans, the air blowing cold on her knees. The only things she’d remembered were how her head had been wedged against the Valiant’s armrest, and a ripping pain that warmed into pleasantness, and the fierce concentration on Billy’s face.

  Was she really different now? Like maybe there was a pre-sex and post-sex Trish? She’d finished dressing while Billy left the car to take a leak. Now it felt cold. She realized she was shaking. A wind had sprung up. A tree branch raked the windshield, and a whistling sound eddied at the windows.

  They had driven off the road a ways, following a track that was little more than a tall hump of grass between two ruts. When Trish heard the engine, her first inclination was to duck. Common sense told her the driver wouldn’t even notice Billy’s Valiant, but adrenaline kicked in, her mind roiling with images of being discovered out here by the sheriff—or worse, her own father. She knew she looked guilty as hell.

  The sound came closer. Trish peered out the back window. Two sets of headlights appeared in the distance, the second pair nearly obscured by dust. As they approached, Trish realized they were trucks, not cars, and they were going fast, bumping and rattling over the rough road. There was something about the speeding trucks that scared her to the core.

  She wished Billy would come back. Where was he anyway? How long did it take to pee?

  They were still a long way off but coming straight at her, one set of headlights just in front of the other.

  There was a bend in the road just before where she and Billy had driven off to park. Logically, Trish knew the trucks would not continue in her direction, but she was scared just the same.