by Anna Jeffrey
Sarah figured she had seen most of humanity’s bad behavior. She certainly had seen depression, but she had never related. Despite all the shit she had waded through, for some reason, she had never been depressed to the point where she wanted a pill or a drink or a shot of something. Survival had always been her goal. She frequently gave Tiffany friendly lectures on the hazards of too many pills, even if some unconscious doctor had given her a prescription.
Tiffany’s parents were divorced. Her mother lived in Abilene. She kept Tiffany amply supplied with the latest fashions and cosmetics if not much else. Tiffany lived with her dad, the only accountant in Roundup. With more income than most of the people in town, he had paid for his only daughter to attend the horse clinic at Louise Beckman’s place at the suggestion from an Abilene doctor. Therapy, the doc said.
Though Sarah had been ordered not to ride a horse at the moment and she couldn’t afford the fee for the clinic anyway, she had recruited herself to nag Tiffany and make sure she went.
Getting along with an unpredictable horse as therapy probably wasn't a solid gold remedy, especially the pissy horse Tiffany's boyfriend left behind. Rudy—Rudy the Rude, Sarah called him—was green-broke and uncut and a handful. Because he belonged to Burke Allen—Burke the Jerk, Sarah had tagged him—Tiffany refused to part with him.
Working as a part time receptionist at Roundup’s small emergency care facility didn’t pay Tiffany enough to afford a vet to fix Rudy or some smart horse trainer to teach him some manners. Her dad picked up the bills for a lot of her frivolous spending, but he had drawn the line at paying to have Burke's horse castrated. He badgered her to sell him and keep the money.
"Burke might come back and want him," Tiffany would tell her dad, but that was pure fantasy. Burke didn't want that unruly horse any more than he wanted Tiffany and he wasn't coming back for any reason any time soon. By now, he probably had found another girlfriend to go along with the greener pastures he thought he would find away from Roundup.
Hearing that Tiffany failed to answer Louise Beckman’s call so early in the morning caused concern. The contents of her medicine cabinet, the fact that her state of mind was worse than anyone believed and knowing Tiffany wasn’t strong had crossed Sarah's mind more than once. "Wonder why she didn't answer. I think I'd better call her."
“Eat your breakfast,” Jericho groused.
“I’m gonna call her, Jericho.”
Jericho maintained a rule about talking on the phone or texting in the middle of a meal, so out of respect for him, Sarah picked up her phone and walked into the kitchen. Tiffany soon came on the line. "Hey, Tiff. Still going this morning?"
"Yeah, I'm going. I just got up."
"Louise tried to call you. Said you didn't answer."
"I was in the bathroom, okay? I'm not like some people. I don't take my phone into the bathroom. If I dropped it in the toilet, I’d have to drive all the way to Abilene to get another one."
Whoa. Snappish this morning. "Okay, okay. Louise was a little concerned is all."
"Well she doesn't need to be. I was going to call her back if somebody will just give me time."
"Don't be mad at her. She cares about you, Tiffany. We all do."
Sniffles came across the line. "I know. I didn't mean to bite your head off."
Tiffany needed to pull herself together. It wasn't even eight o'clock and she was in tears. Sarah held back a sigh. "Listen, Jericho and I'll pick you up soon as we get Wyatt on the school bus, okay?"
Since Tiffany owned no trailer in which to haul Rudy the Rude, Jericho and Sarah intended to haul him in Jericho's rusty, beat-up two-horse trailer, along with Sarah's mare, Popsie.
"I don't think I can make Rudy go into a trailer," Tiffany said, still sniffling. "Half the time, Burke couldn’t do it, either.”
"Don’t cry, okay. Jericho and I’ll be able to load him for you."
Sarah had no idea if that was true. She had a stiff leg and wasn’t as agile as she had been once. In his seventies, Jericho wasn't either and he huffed and puffed when he walked even a short distance. Still, Sarah was determined to not let Tiffany start the day with Burke the Jerk on her mind.
"I thought Wyatt was already out of school," Tiffany was saying.
"Nope. Friday at noon. He won't have to go back until after New Year's. I'm making a bunch of cupcakes for his Christmas party. I thought my good friend who can cook might help me."
"Ugh. Seriously?"
Sarah considered herself a decent cook. Hell, she had been cooking since she was Wyatt's age. When she was ten, she had been placed with a foster family who wanted a cook and house cleaner more than they wanted an extra kid. Sarah didn't need anyone's help to make cupcakes, but Tiffany needed something to do other than sitting around moping over Burke.
"Hey, c'mon. You can do it. They had cake mixes on sale at the grocery store and I bought two different kinds. Chocolate and Red Velvet. And I bought some cream cheese and powdered sugar. Cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. That oughtta keep those kids on a sugar high for a whole week. I got some of those colored sprinkle things to put on top of the frosting, too. Red and green. Hello, Christmas."
"I guess I can manage a mix. Listen, I gotta go. I'll be ready when you get here."
As Sarah disconnected, Jericho called out from the dining room. "You gonna finish your breakfast?"
Sarah returned to her seat at the table. "Sorry. I was worried about her."
"What's wrong with her?" Wyatt asked
"She's got some personal problems, Son," Sarah answered.
Jericho harrumphed. "That girl's spoiled. She needs to toughen up. She don't know what real problems are."
Sarah agreed, but she respected Tiffany enough as a friend to not say it aloud.
"I know, Jericho, but Tiffany hasn't heard one word from him. He left one day and just didn’t come back. No good-bye, see you later or anything. You gotta admit that was shitty.” Sarah turned to Wyatt. "Sorry, Son. Don't ever use that word."
"I know, Mom. Grandpa says just because you cuss like a sailor doesn't mean it's right."
"He's right. You listen to Grandpa."
She turned her attention back to Jericho. “What’s worse, he left his horse, too. The ass—I mean the jerk hasn't even called to ask about Rudy. He left his tack behind, too. It’s one thing for him to leave a horse he didn’t especially like, but to leave his saddle is a bad sign.”
"You still haven’t said why you’re taking Popsie," Jericho said. "You're not planning on riding, are you?"
"I wouldn't mind if I get the chance. The guy doing the clinic is supposed to be some super expert on horses and horsemanship. Some people call him a horse whisperer. Maybe I could learn something."
"That's bullshit. You ride as good as anybody I know. You don't need no lessons from a bullshitter."
"Jericho!" Sarah widened her eyes and pointed her two index fingers at her ears. She shot a quick look at her son. "That's another bad word, Wyatt. Don't say that one either."
Wyatt straightened in his chair and thrust out his little chin in indignation. "His picture's in a magazine. I saw him on TV.” Wyatt scooted out of his chair and ran out of the room, returned with a magazine and thrust it into Sarah’s hand. The cover showed a picture of a lean cowboy wearing a black hat, astride a good-looking horse, the cowboy’s face, the horse’s face and a steer’s face all within inches of each other. It was an outstanding photograph.
“Him and his horses win all the cutting shows,” Wyatt said. “I wish I could go see him.”
"Tell you what, Son. I gotta work Friday, but you’re getting out of school at noon. We can ask Jericho if he’ll pick you up at school, then take you out to Louise’s. I'll talk to her and make sure you get to meet him."
"Just don't get on Tiffany's horse," Jericho said. "The sumbitch might kill you. Hell, he might kill me trying to get him into the trailer.” He gave a deep heh-heh-heh.
Sarah made a mental sigh. Trying to teach a nine-year-old boy n
ot to cuss in this house was impossible.
"The truth is, you don't need to be getting on any horse," Jericho went on. "It's only been a few months since that last surgery and we're hoping it's the last one. You don't want to mess it up."
"Jericho, I can't mess it up. And I can't sit around and do nothing. I'm okay. My leg's good. No infection or anything. Riding would be good exercise. If it started to hurt, I could take lots of ibuprofen."
With that, she picked up the bottle of Advil sitting in the middle of the table, bumped a couple into her palm and swallowed them.
Chapter 3
As Troy and Sal sat in companionable silence, trucks and SUVs began to arrive, an assortment of trailers hooked to them. They parked in the roped off area in one of Lou’s pastures. People stepped out of the rigs and began unloading saddled horses from the trailers.
Troy hitched his chin toward the old arena Lou’s ranch hands had spruced up with clean, raked sand. Half-a-dozen metal benches hunkered on one side of the arena. “Time to rock and roll,” Troy said.
“Go for it,” Sal replied. “I’ve got your back.”
Of that, Troy was certain. Sal faded into the background, but Troy never doubted his presence.
He stood, set his empty mug on his truck’s back bumper then folded his chair. Sal did, too, and moved to stand on Troy’s exposed side. What might happen if an assailant showed up Troy couldn’t imagine, but it wouldn’t be pretty.
He gathered hay flakes from a feed bin and plopped them into the wheelbarrow Lou had left him. On top of the hay, he balanced a bucket of oats, then pushed the wheelbarrow toward the small fenced pasture where his horse had spent the night.
Typically, he hauled two horses to his clinics, but today, he brought only one, his favorite mount, Batman. The horse was a seven-year-old stud he had bred and raised. He a true black without a spot of brown or white anywhere. As a foal, when he perked up his ears, he reminded Troy of the Batman silhouette.
Waiting for Troy, the big stallion whickered. He smelled breakfast and already sensed excitement in the air. He liked having something to do.
Troy stopped at the fence and let him hang his head over the pole rail and nuzzle his cheek. “Hey, buddy,” he said softly. He ran his hand down the sleek black neck. “You look like you’re up for it to day. Ready to teach these tenderfeet how to treat their horses, eh?”
Batman snorted and stamped a foot as if he felt important. Troy chuckled.
He opened the gate and wheeled the hay inside. The horse buried his nose in it immediately. While he ate, Troy rested a hand on his back, unhooked his phone from his belt and scrolled one-handed through text messages. Kate ... Dad .... Pic ... Mom ... Drake ... Kate again. They all had texted Saturday night and congratulated him on the win. Today, they must be texting about something to do with Christmas.
He stopped scrolling at Jordan Palmer’s name. He hadn’t seen or heard from Jordan in a while. “Wonder what he wants, buddy,” Troy mumbled to Batman.
Dorinda Fisk’s name appeared. He doubted she wanted to congratulate him for anything or wish him a Merry Christmas either, so why would she be texting him?
He looked up and out over the still landscape. Did he want to sully this nice day so early in the morning by reading what she had to say? She had already said plenty in person when he broke up with her three months back. She had even made a few threats. Ending their affair had taught him one thing: Separating from a well-heeled woman who was used to getting her way wasn’t that easy.
“Shit,” he muttered. He checked his watch and decided he might as well get it over with.
He pressed into her message: Hi. Miss U. Saw ur ride. Congrats on ur win. Horse was great. Not surprised. Call me? Pls? I didn’t mean what I said about Mandy.
Not true. Dorinda had meant every word she had said in a text about Troy’s brother’s wife. Even if she hadn’t meant it, the word “sorry” didn’t erase words that never should have been written.
Troy’s memory zoomed back to the day after Mandy had been stranded alone in a dark parking lot at midnight in Fort Worth. The whole Lockhart family was in a state, but Dorinda sent him a venomous text: ... I can just see the poor dumb bitch standing out there all by her li’l ol’ self, shaking in her shoes...
That had been the last straw. Dorinda had no reason for so much meanness toward a good woman she had never met. Amanda Breckenridge Lockhart had a lot to brag about. She had been a friend to Troy long before she married Pic Lockhart.
Now, even after more than twenty years, Troy still remembered that after he lost his mother in a contest with an eighteen-wheeler. Mandy, a couple of years older than he, had declared that she would be his friend. Before either of them knew the Lockhart family, she had been the angel who had taken him under her ten-year-old wings and tried to protect him.
He didn’t want to talk to Dorinda. She had already brought enough chaos into his life. He had a fair share of patience, but once he severed a tie, he was done. That was how he was wired.
Just then, Louise Beckman, the woman who organized and hosted this clinic, startled him out of his musing. “Mornin’, Troy.”
“Hey, mornin’, Lou.” Troy touched the bill of his cap to the thin seventy-ish woman in an oversize barn coat. He had never seen her in clothing other than jeans and boots. She wore her steel-gray hair in short tight curls. A “wash-and-wear do,” she called it.
Her husband, Carl, as much a horse lover as Troy, had passed on from pneumonia two years back. A soft-spoken, day-dreamy kind of guy, Carl had been a little short on practical sense, but unequaled as a trainer. He was tuned in to how horses thought and why they behaved the way they did. He had been a good friend. His funeral was one of the few Troy had ever attended.
After his passing, Lou carried on alone. Un-distracted by a devotion to highbred horses, she had made the small Beckman cattle ranch more successful than when her husband was alive.
She looked out over the landscape, then up at the sky. “Gonna be a pretty day.”
“Looks like it. Where’d you get the benches?”
“The school lent ’em to me. My boys will be hauling them back to town on Friday though. They got a game.”
Ah. Football. From the look of Roundup, Troy couldn’t imagine that the school could field an eleven-man team. “Six-man?”
“That’s all we’ve had for a while. People keep moving away. Pretty soon, we won’t even have a school, much less a football team. West Texas is dying.”
Troy nodded. The population exodus from rural West Texas towns was a conversation for another day. “I’ve got coffee over in my rig. Want a cup?”
“Already drunk a potful. Just wanted to tell you my horse wrangler and his helper will be out to lend you a hand in a little bit. We got fifteen folks showing up with their horses, so I expect you’ll need some help. Some bringing more than one. There’s even a couple of colts.”
Laughing, Troy slapped a hand against his chest. “Lou. You’re gonna kill me.”
She ignored him and went on. “Weather’s supposed to turn bad by Thursday or Friday. Don’t know what that’ll mean to the workshop.”
Normally, Troy’s clinics ran a full five days. Because of the World Finals, the date being so close to Christmas and the weather forecast, he had decided to try to cram five long days into four-and-a half or even four. “Hm. This close to the holiday, I thought we might have a smaller group.”
Lou’s weathered face split into a grin, showing off her snow-white false teeth. “You’ve got a reputation, boy. A few are driving from quite a distance. Couple from Abilene. One woman from Brady has been to your clinics twice before. Guess she’s a slow learner. Or maybe her interest ain’t really horses. She asked for a discount.”
Troy interacted with so many people at clinics and horse shows he rarely remembered one participant from another. He frowned. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t remember. I wrote it down on that list I gave you. We even got some spectators coming o
ut from town. The motel in town’s plumb full of people come to see what’s going on. They think this is some kind of special rodeo.”
This happened more often these days. No matter how far off the beaten path Troy conducted a workshop, people came to watch the activity. He was flattered but also bothered. In his sessions, he did nothing so exciting or revolutionary that it should call up a crowd of looky-loos. Sal and Dixon probably had their hands full keeping their eyes on so many people.
Still, he returned Lou’s grin. “Is that so? Then ol’ Batman and I’ll try to give ’em their money’s worth.”
“You’d better. I ’magine some of ’em spent their Christmas money on coming to this workshop.”
He patted his horse’s neck. “Sorry it had to be so close to the holidays, but it was the only time I had.”
“Nobody’s complaining,” Lou said. “These are my friends and neighbors. Ever since they found out I know you, they’ve been wanting me to put together a workshop. It don’t make no mind to them what time of year it is.”
They both scanned the students or clients or customers or whatever they were called. They and their horses were starting to congregate outside the arena. All were female.
This crowd had a different look from the ones on the West Coast or in Arizona. Most of the people he would be working with this week obviously weren’t wealthy. Only two or three with fancy clothes or hats and expensive rigs for hauling a horse or horses.
He had no trouble believing they might have spent their Christmas money on this clinic. That fact touched his heart and made him determined to see that they really did get their money’s worth. No doubt they really cared about their horses.
Her voice recaptured his attention. “Do any men ever sign up for your workshops?”