The Trail Home
Pine Hollow, Book Two
Bonnie Bryant
For my boys, Emmons and Andy
ONE
Nothing had been the same since the accident. Stevie Lake only had to close her eyes to bring back every terrifying detail, from the dark blur of the horse that raced in front of her car to the ceaseless flapping of the windshield wipers to the utter silence that told her and her friend Carole that something was wrong—really wrong—with Callie.
Callie had been in the backseat. The old car didn’t have shoulder belts back there. Callie had been tossed around like a rag doll as the car tumbled. She was unconscious, concussed, and seriously hurt. They had known that much when the ambulance had taken her away.
Carole and Stevie had been merely bumped, bruised, and cut. Stevie had broken ribs as well. But they were okay. They slept at home that night in their own beds, while Callie stayed in the hospital, watched carefully by the doctors and her family, recovering first from the accident and then from the emergency surgery that had relieved the pressure on her brain.
The doctors reassured everybody. They told Callie’s father, Congressman Forester, that they were doing everything possible. They told her mother and her brother, Scott, that they were pretty sure Callie would be all right. They told the reporters who waited impatiently outside the hospital for updates about the congressman’s daughter that she was resting comfortably.
Nothing anybody said could reassure Stevie. She’d been behind the wheel of the car. She was the one who had swerved to avoid the terrified horse. She was the one who had put Callie in the hospital, who had nearly killed her, and who was now responsible for the injuries that remained—and might remain forever. Callie’s bones had knit, her cuts had healed, her bruises faded, but there was something else. One of the doctors called it residual brain damage.
Residual. That meant left over. There was no telling how long it would be left over or if it would be left over forever. The realization that it might be forever left a dull, persistent ache in Stevie’s heart. It didn’t matter how many people told her she couldn’t have prevented the accident; she was the one who had been driving. Callie’s life had been in her hands, and her hands alone. Something had gone wrong, and Callie was paying for it. That was residual.
Callie’s doctor thought horseback riding would be good for her. It would strengthen her muscles, help her balance, and give her confidence. The doctor called it therapeutic riding. It was an ironically logical solution, making everything seem simple and neat: the rider healing herself through riding. But the fact was that nothing was simple; everything was complicated. Stevie was overwhelmed by all the complications—most of them caused by her.
“Look at that,” Carole said, pointing down to the ring, where Callie was having her first therapeutic riding session.
Stevie was acutely aware of everything that was going on below them. She and Carole were sitting in a shady spot on a hillside overlooking the schooling ring, where Callie was the lone rider amid a large group of instructors, supporters, and well-wishers.
“It’s as if she’s on a horse for the first time,” Stevie said. “And I bet it feels that way to her, too.”
“I bet,” Carole agreed.
Down in the ring, Callie looked around nervously. She was in the saddle—a place she’d spent countless hours over many, many years—but it didn’t feel the way it had before. Ever since the accident, her right side had refused to be what it had been. She could move everything, wave her fingers, wiggle her toes, but none of it felt quite right. It was as if there was a delay in getting the instructions from her mind to her limbs. And they weren’t strong. She had trouble raising her right arm and moving it forward. Her leg seemed stiff, like an unfamiliar appendage. Was it hers, really? It certainly wasn’t the same leg she’d always thought she’d had. When it moved, it kind of jerked. She was unsure whether it would hold her, move her forward, help her turn, stand up, sit down, or lie down. And when she got tired it got worse.
Now, here she was, sitting in the saddle of this sweet-natured horse named PC, and even just standing there, Callie was acutely aware that the horse was doing a lot more work than she was.
“Good job!” the physical therapist said.
“I haven’t done anything,” Callie told her.
“That means you haven’t done anything wrong yet,” Emily Williams said wryly.
Callie smiled. Emily had a way of finding high points in a flat landscape.
Emily was Callie’s age, and it was her horse Callie was riding. Emily had years of experience with therapeutic riding because she’d been born with cerebral palsy. Walking on her own two feet, Emily was disabled. She needed her crutches, and if she got overtired, she had to use her hated wheelchair. She’d been riding for years, and she loved every minute she spent with PC, because when she was in the saddle, she was everybody’s equal. She could walk, trot, and canter just as well as anybody else. Some people thought she loved riding because it helped her forget that she was disabled. That wasn’t quite right, though, because she accepted her disability as part of herself; it wasn’t something that ever went away. What she loved about riding was that other people forgot she was disabled. That was a gift she treasured. Now she wanted Callie to learn about it, too. She wouldn’t learn today, not on her first day in the saddle, but soon, Emily was sure.
“Okay now, PC,” Emily said. “Let’s make Callie do some work.” She passed the lead line to Ben Marlow, a stable hand, and clucked her tongue. Obediently PC began walking.
It took Callie a second to adjust to the pace—not that it was fast. She was moving, and for the first time since her accident, she was moving smoothly. There was no jerk or hesitation in PC’s step. She sighed to herself.
“Not too fast there, Ben,” Scott Forester interjected.
“It’s just a walk!” Callie chided her brother.
“Well, it looks like a fast walk to me,” Scott said.
“Slow down, boy,” Emily said as if she meant it, but neither Ben nor the horse slowed down a bit.
Callie was so focused on the work she was doing—and there was no doubt that it was work—that she was almost unaware of her brother’s concern. Scott wasn’t the natural-born rider that his sister was. He was a natural-born talker—star of every debate team he’d ever been on—and destined to be a politician like his father.
“She’ll be fine as long as she isn’t distracted,” Ben said, speaking for the first time as he continued to lead PC across the ring. Ben had all the patience in the world for horses. He didn’t have much tolerance for people, though, and that seemed to include Scott in particular.
Scott merely glared at him, but he did stop fretting out loud. He stepped back and stood by his parents. His father slung an arm over his shoulder.
Up on the hillside, Carole and Stevie could see it all, and although they couldn’t hear, they knew what was going on.
“I don’t think Scott is ever going to speak to me again,” Stevie said.
“Oh, he’ll get over it,” said Carole.
“He told me I should have just hit the horse and been done with it. That was what he said, ‘and been done with it.’”
“If he knew anything about horses or driving, he would know that if a car hits a horse, there aren’t any winners. You swerved, and it probably saved all of our lives. Even the police investigation said so.”
“I wonder,” Stevie said.
“Don’t. It’s true,” said Carole. “There’s no point in wondering about it.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, I wonder how much I saved,” Stevie said. “Look at Callie.”
“She’s going to be fine,” said Carole.
“Maybe. And then there’s Fez.
”
Fez was the horse Stevie had swerved to avoid hitting. She’d hit him anyway, and the impact had sent the car tumbling down the hillside. The horse had been left on the road, badly hurt.
If he hadn’t been so valuable, he would have been put down right away. He’d broken a leg that wasn’t going to heal easily, if at all. As part of his recovery, he’d spent some time suspended in a tank of water that kept his weight off the leg. Most owners couldn’t afford to give their horses the kind of treatment Fez had received, but the Foresters had insisted that the vet do everything possible to save him.
“Maybe Fez’ll make it; maybe he won’t,” Carole said.
“You sound like you almost don’t care,” said Stevie. “An odd thought for somebody who’s never met a horse she didn’t like.”
Carole smiled. “Fez might possibly be the exception to that,” she said, shaking her head. Fez was a top-level endurance horse, and some of the qualities that made him a champion in that sport made him difficult to love, from Carole’s point of view. Endurance riding demanded enormous spirit, heart, and determination from both horse and rider. In the case of Fez, that also seemed to translate into stubbornness. Carole had been exercising him and found herself at odds with the animal almost every time she rode him. He’d been a challenge she hadn’t met easily. And then she’d seen Callie ride him and it had been as if he were a different animal. Callie knew exactly how much room to give him to let him strut his stuff. He was fiery, to be sure, but Callie managed him by letting him at least think he was in charge. It was a formidable partnership.
Another part of Fez’s spirit came from his total awareness of what was going on around him. He was highly sensitive and reacted to everything, which meant he spooked easily. He’d been out in the paddock when the freak thunderstorm struck, and the lightning had terrified him into jumping a four-and-a-half-foot fence onto the road, straight into the path of Stevie’s car.
“But just because I didn’t like riding Fez doesn’t mean I don’t care about him,” Carole said.
“Oh, I know that. A day hasn’t gone by that you haven’t either stopped by the clinic or called to find out how he was doing.”
“And every time I stopped by, you were there, too,” Carole reminded her.
“A pair of softies, that’s what we are,” said Stevie. “Besides, it was a way to avoid the journalists who wanted to talk to me all the time. At the hospital, at home, every time I turned around, there they were. Somehow or other they never located the clinic.” Right after the accident, Stevie had been flooded with requests for interviews. Reporters wanted to talk to the driver of the car that had so seriously hurt “the congressman’s daughter.” It hadn’t helped Stevie’s own recovery at all.
Stevie and Carole watched the rest of the lesson in silence, enjoying the interaction between horse and rider. It didn’t seem odd to either of them that in this instance the horse was doing more of the instructing than the rider.
The two girls, along with their friend Lisa Atwood, who was spending the summer in California, had ridden together for a long time. Riding was something they always enjoyed, even when it was work, and for each of them there had been times when the very act of riding was itself an act of healing.
Carole glanced at Stevie, who was sitting still, intently watching Callie and Emily, and watching the people who were watching Callie and Emily. Carole hoped Callie’s healing would mark the beginning of Stevie’s healing. Stevie might be able to fool some people about how well she had recovered from the trauma of the accident and the crush of journalists, but she couldn’t fool Carole. Carole knew that the smile on Stevie’s face masked enormous doubt and pain in her heart. Stevie, after all, had been the one behind the wheel, and now nothing was the same.
TWO
In the schooling ring below, Carole saw that the session was coming to an end. Ben brought PC to a halt at the mounting block, where the therapist and Callie’s father were waiting to help Callie dismount.
“C’mon,” Carole said, standing up. “Let’s go give a hand with the tack and grooming. PC could use some help.”
Stevie looked doubtful. “Don’t you think there are enough people to help already?”
Of course there were. There were a half dozen people watching this first session, but Carole didn’t think that was the point. “They’re all there to look after Callie. You and I should take care of PC.”
“Okay,” Stevie agreed, somewhat reluctantly. Not for a minute did Carole think that Stevie’s hesitation had anything to do with PC or the idea of looking after a horse. It had nothing to do with horses and everything to do with people. Since Stevie still blamed herself for what had happened, Carole knew she was certain others did, too. “Others” included Callie’s parents and brother. Stevie wasn’t eager to face them again. Carole wasn’t going to be deterred. She gave Stevie a hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Last one down there is a …”
“Chicken?” Stevie supplied.
Carole didn’t respond, just hurried down the hillside. Stevie followed more slowly.
They arrived at the dismounting area to find that Callie was still receiving congratulations on her session.
“You did really well,” the therapist was saying.
“A good start,” said Emily.
“You must be very tired,” said her mother.
“Would you like me to carry you?” her father asked.
Carole winced for Callie. It had to be extremely annoying to have all those well-wishers standing around telling her how she felt.
As she watched the group crowding around Callie, Carole thought back to their first meeting. The two hadn’t hit it off. Carole had been put off by what she regarded as Callie’s arrogance and need for special treatment. Gradually she’d realized that Callie wasn’t arrogant, merely shy and uncomfortable in a new situation. Unfortunately, Carole had let her first impression affect the way she behaved toward the new girl. Then, before she could apologize and suggest that they start fresh, the accident had happened. Suddenly those minor differences didn’t seem important anymore. Now, as Callie began her journey to recovery, Carole was determined that they would both start over as friends.
For now, Carole didn’t see any point in adding to the confusion. She just smiled at Callie and took the horse’s lead rope to walk him back to his stall. Stevie followed.
“Here, dear, I’ll get your crutches,” said Mrs. Forester.
“I can carry her,” Congressman Forester said.
Carole and Stevie were aware of a lot of chatter as they did the routine but enjoyable work that was part of riding. That meant untacking, grooming, watering, and feeding the sweet horse that had just exerted so much effort for their friend. They worked in silence, which was more than could be said about the others who were there.
The therapist wanted to talk with Emily about future sessions, since she couldn’t be there every time. They had worked out a plan that would help Callie rebuild strength in her muscles and, with some luck and skill, overcome the residual brain damage from the accident.
Callie’s parents talked intently with Max Regnery, the owner of Pine Hollow. Max had been instructing a class during the beginning of the session, but once the class was over, he had joined the well-wishers. They stood outside PC’s stall, so Carole and Stevie could hear that they were discussing Fez. The injured horse would be returning to Pine Hollow soon, released from the clinic.
“We’re going to work with our vet—you’ve met Judy Barker, haven’t you? Well, she’s the best. And we’ll do whatever we can,” Max said.
Carole listened, but she didn’t know what the Foresters were saying until Max answered them.
“No,” he said. “It’s not a matter of money. He’ll get whatever care he needs. And whatever care seems best.”
Carole and Stevie exchanged glances. “As if Max, or anyone here, could possibly ignore the needs of any horse!” Stevie whispered, giving PC a final brush and pat.
&nbs
p; Pine Hollow was a long-established stable with a lot of traditions. One of the strongest ones was that everybody there worked. When the girls were younger, they had thought that the primary reason for that was to keep costs down, and it certainly did that. When riders pitched in, it meant that the place needed fewer paid staff members, and that made riding accessible to more people.
But it had taken a while for the girls to understand that there was a lot more to it. By helping, by looking after their own horses and often pitching in to help with other people’s, they’d learned that riding didn’t start when you got into the saddle and end when you dismounted. Riding was taking responsibility for your horse as well as riding it. That resulted in another of Pine Hollow’s traditions: turning out well-trained, successful horsemen and horsewomen. Pine Hollow’s “graduates” had earned lots of ribbons at prestigious horse shows, and some had gone on to distinguished careers in different aspects of riding, horse care, and stable management. Carole intended to be among them.
“I’ll get his water bucket,” Carole said.
Stevie went to get a fresh tick of hay. When she returned, she found that almost everybody was at PC’s stall. It looked like a tableau, with the players surrounding the featured characters. Callie was rubbing PC’s nose while the gentle horse chomped on a carrot she’d given him. Scott stood nearby, looking tense, as if the act of petting the horse could endanger his sister. The therapist looked proud, as if she’d invented therapeutic riding. Emily, clearly pleased that she’d been able to help, was holding on to PC’s halter with what looked like great pride of ownership. Ben was there, too, but he stood back, silent as usual.
Carrying PC’s bucket, Carole made her entrance into the scene. The tableau broke apart, letting her into the stall.
“Good start,” she said to Callie while she hooked the bucket on the wall.
“I guess it was,” Callie said. She nodded, pleased, because what Carole had said was true. It was good, and it was a start, but it was only a start … but it was good.
The Trail Home Page 1