Catch Rider (9780544034303) (24 page)

I was going to ride boldly. I was going to win it or blow it, but I was going for it.

We walked into the ring, and Sub's ears perked up as he looked at the first fence. He jumped big, and I grabbed a handful of braids in order to hang on. We dug deep into the turns, and I felt him drop his head and play with the bit just like he used to when we were out in the field. Another fence, another oxer, the fan jump not perfect but fine, and I was still on. Finally, it was time for the wall. The last jump. It looked huge.

“Come on, Sub,” I said. I dug in my heels and pointed him at the jump. He locked his eyes on it, gathered his haunches up under him, and left the ground. I hung on for dear life.

When he landed, I slowed him down to a trot and we left the ring. My mind was blank, and then it all started pouring in. I reached down to pat Sub's neck and saw that I had pulled out two of his braids.

Wayne laughed: “Ha!” He grinned and patted Sub hard behind the saddle. Mama came down from the stands and congratulated us.

After a couple of minutes, they called ten of us to ride back into the ring. Just ten, including Kelly and me. I didn't know if there were more tests or if this was it. We lined up, not looking at each other. I was nervous as hell. I had been thinking so much about the next steps, and now there was nothing to do but wait. The other riders looked anxious and excited.

The judge and another official walked in with a huge silver plate and a box of ribbons. This was it.

“Tenth place goes to number three hundred twenty-two . . .”

I was going to place.

He called ninth, then eighth. I kept counting to make sure there were ten of us in the ring.

“Third place goes to number twenty-nine, Kelly Wakefield.”

I beat Kelly.

“And reserve champion of this year's ASPCA Maclay Finals goes to number seventy-two, Sidney Criser of Covington, Virginia.”

My face got hot as a poker, and I thought I might pass out. I was reserve champion—second place!

The judge brought me a beautiful silver plate, smaller than the one I'd seen but gleaming like a mirror. She handed me a tricolor reserve ribbon in red, yellow, and white and a navy horse blanket. She smiled so hard when she handed them to me that I wondered if she thought I was someone else.

“And the 2012 ASPCA Maclay Championship goes to number one hundred nineteen, Jane McFarlane from Marietta, Georgia!”

It was a girl I had seen go late in the order, an elegant rider with a long-legged Thoroughbred.

“Good job,” she said.

“You too,” I said.

I posed with Sub for an official photo, and then I dismounted and they took another one with Sub's head over my shoulder, the ribbon hanging from his bridle, the silver plate in my hand.

“I love you,” I whispered to Sub.

He rested his head on my shoulder and closed his eyes.

When Dutch came over and shook Wayne's hand, my heart almost burst. I hugged Wayne, then Mama. None of us said a word. I was all choked up and figured they were, too.

“Gee, I'm glad you didn't sell him to Chew-Gum for a thousand dollars,” I said when I could speak.

Wayne laughed. He and Mama walked back to the stalls while people came over and congratulated me and asked about Sub.

Finally, I took Sub back to the stalls, my arms and legs feeling light, everything feeling easy. Wes was moving in the same direction in front of me. When he turned around and saw me, a warm smile spread across his face. He walked toward me and took my helmet and gloves to free up my hands. He brushed a piece of hair from my face, and then he wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. I thought I would die. I didn't want him to ever let go.

He took Sub's reins from me and walked him to his stall, took off his tack, and rubbed his head. Sub stuck his nose into a bucket of water and slurped half of it down without stopping.

I laughed. “Poor thing—he hasn't worked that hard in ten years!”

“You single-handedly brought back the pinto!” Wes said. “Cherokee would like to thank you from the bottom of his heart for making him cool again.”

“Maybe we can take them out together sometime,” I said.

Wes's smile faded. “I don't know if I'm going to be at Oak Hill for much longer. It's not the right place for me.”

“Oh.”

“But if I leave, I'll have to ask Cherokee to come with me,” Wes said, smiling.

“Thanks,” I said.

“For what?” he asked.

“You made me feel like I wasn't alone.”

He leaned over and kissed me for real, his hand in my hair. I could feel the muscles in his back through his soft, worn T-shirt. I thought about how great he smelled, and then I almost laughed when I realized it was hoof polish.

“I have to finish up with the Oak Hill horses,” he said, and he hugged me again and walked out of the stall. “I'll see you at home?”

“You riding back with Kelly?” I asked.

“No way. I'm in the truck with Edgar.” Right then, I knew he and Kelly weren't together anymore. He had stuck with her to get her through the finals because he was a gentleman.

“Come over this week,” I said. “We've got some horses that need work.”

Caroline congratulated me and let me switch her horse's stall with Sub's, so Sonny and Sub were right next to each other. They stuck their noses over the wall between them and sniffed each other. Caroline also gave me a handful of sugar cubes for Sub. I gave him a couple, which he sucked right out of my hand. I gave a couple to Sonny, too.

I took my collar off, removed my grandmother's stock pin, and wrapped it carefully in tissue. I put it into the tack trunk to keep it safe. Then I straightened out the necklace Ruthie had made for me.

When I went outside with Mama and Wayne, it was getting dark. I went into a candy store and bought a big chocolate bar with hazelnuts for June. I watched the saleslady carefully wrap it in orange tissue paper with a shiny brown ribbon.

We bought hot pretzels covered in salt at a steaming cart on the corner.

Snow was beginning to fall, slowly at first, then harder, swirling around us.

“First snow of the year,” Wayne said, holding his hand out and catching some flakes. I held my hand out too.

A horse pulling a carriage with tourists clomped by in the snow.

“Poor old horse don't have no pasture to graze in,” said Wayne.

“He's lucky. He could be living at your house,” I said. Wayne and Mama both laughed—“Ha!”—and we continued down the snowy sidewalk.

We found a bench and sat down together, Wayne between Mama and me. Mama had tears in her eyes, and they started to roll down her cheeks. It tore me up inside to see her cry, but somehow this was different. I knew she was thinking about Jimmy, and I also knew it was the happiest she'd been in a long time. She had made it here. We were in New York City together.

Wayne looked tired but happy. I knew I wouldn't be there if it weren't for him believing in me. He wanted to see me succeed because he knew me and he loved me. And I loved him back.

I knew I was a catch rider now. It ran in the family. I could ride anything, anywhere. People in the horse world knew this, but most important, I knew it. Now I could hang out by the rail at a big show in case someone needed a catch ride.

I watched cars quietly coasting through the snow, people holding out their hands, catching flakes and smiling, and I felt as light as air.

T
HANK YOU
, Adam, for everything.

I'm deeply indebted to Virginia horsemen Dale Stewart and Wayne Hooker for sharing their knowledge with me.

Thanks to Sandy Hooper Melnyk, Chester Cleek, Pete Criser, Mary Lynn Riner, Brian LaFountain, and all the people I met in Hot Springs, Virginia.

Enormous thanks to my editor, Dinah Stevenson, for believing in my voice and for helping me believe in it too.

To my agent, Alice Martell, for taking a chance on a new writer.

To Margo Meyer, Chandler Burr, Jane Hodges, Meg Roebling, Robert Attanasio, Kathleen O'Donnell, Marc Kompaneyets, Claudine O'Rourke, Kit Pongetti, and Mark Stegemann.

To my teachers Howard Pugh and Dale Bishop.

To Maribel, Jaime, Ashley, and Jimmy Zavala, and to Angelica Cotrina.

To Marcus, Denise, Vinny, and Isabella Di Lucia.

To Philip Hirsh for his authentic and hilarious book about Bath County,
Voices from the Hollow.

To Mitch Gordon.

I wrote much of this story in Indian Road Café, a sanctuary at the top of the island of Manhattan—thank you, Jason Minter, for creating it.

To Vermont Studio Center.

To Darren Johnson and Elizabeth Riley.

To Kaitlin and Carol Parker for letting me watch your journey to the Maclay Finals.

To Sandy and Joel Watstein for the long hours of babysitting.

Thank you to old Submarine and all the other horses I've met, especially the mean ones.

J
ENNIFER
L
YNE
was raised in Virginia, where she spent a lot of time around horses and eventually managed a small barn. She worked as a location scout for 14 feature films and with her husband wrote and produced two independent features. She lives in New York City.