Cowboy Colt (7 page)

Secrets

The rest of the weekend I can't think of anything but the fact that I'm going to have the best gift for my best friend. A cow horse. I'm guessing it's probably at least part quarter horse. That's what Colt has always wanted.

Dad thinks I should talk to Colt's parents to make sure it's okay. But I know it will be. They have lots of space. And plenty of money for vets and farriers and feed too. Mom ended the discussion by agreeing with me. “I think a horse might be the best thing to happen to Colt in a month of Sundays.”

The only problem I can see is how I'm going to keep my gift a secret from Colt until his birthday. I'm afraid if he asks me anything, I'll spill the surprise at school on Monday.

But as it turns out, this isn't a problem. Colt doesn't show up at school on Monday. After school I jot down all the assignments for him. I bring home my books for him to use too. It's what we've done for each other since first grade.

It's not easy lugging everything over to his house. I trudge up to the Stevenses' front door and ring the doorbell. Nobody comes to the door. I didn't expect Colt's dad to be home. I'm not sure where he works. He's gone a lot. But I kind of thought Mrs. Stevens would be home. When I'm home sick from school and Mom can't stay with me, Dad takes off work. And Colt's mom works at the same place as Dad, the Jingle Bells Ad Agency.

I ring the bell again. No answer.

I think about leaving the stuff for Colt on their porch, but it looks like it's starting to rain. I grab my books and dash across the street just as the sky opens up. I'm soaking wet when I crash into our house.

Dad pulls the door open before I can. “You look like you could use something hot to drink,” he says.

Dad, Ethan, and I are sipping homemade hot chocolate when Mom rushes in. She's drenched. Whatever dress she's wearing is bleeding colors all over the kitchen floor.

“Whoo-whee!” she exclaims. “It's raining so hard out there I believe the animals are pairing up. And if I didn't know our neighbors so well, I'd think they were getting into the ark business. Somebody's building something over at the Stevenses' place.”

Now that she mentions it, I did see a bunch of lumber piled up in their yard.

I get Mom a beach towel. Dad makes her a cup of hot chocolate. And Ethan gets her slippers.

While Mom sits down to sip her hot chocolate, I go to the front window and look across the street. A wood frame is already put together in the back of Colt's yard. I hope they don't plan on building another house there. It's a big yard, but I wouldn't want Colt's new horse to have to share the lot.

I keep an eye out for Mrs. Stevens to come home. Twice I call Colt, but nobody answers. I don't call anymore because I don't want to wake him. But I wish he had somebody there with him. Maybe he's just a little bit sick.

It's getting dark when Mrs. Stevens's car finally comes around the corner. I tear across the street, glad it has stopped raining. I call her name, but I don't think she hears me. She pulls into their garage. The automatic garage door starts closing just as I get there. I duck under it, and the door rises automatically.

Mrs. Stevens gets out with her briefcase. She doesn't look surprised to see me in her garage. “Ellie?”

“Is Colt okay?” I ask. I was in such a hurry that I forgot the bag of books for Colt.

“Yes,” she answers.

“That's good. Um, I have his assignments. You know, so he won't get behind. Only I left them at my house.”

“Thoughtful,” she says. “But unnecessary.”

“Huh?”

“Colt already has his assignments for the week.”

“Is he that sick?” I want to ask if I can see him.

“He's not sick at all,” she explains.

“But you said—”

Mrs. Stevens blows out air the way horses do when they're getting riled. “Colt and Sierra are spending the week in St. Louis. With their father.” I start to ask why, but she cuts me off. “Thank you for your concern, though.” She puts one hand on the garage door opener.

I turn and leave the garage. The door closes behind me.

When I get home, I hear Dad and the Bear discussing the used car commercial. Mostly it's the Bear talking. He stays to eat a late dinner with us.

I fill everybody in on Colt's mysterious St. Louis trip with his dad. “I don't get it. Why would he and his sister miss a whole week of school? Why would their parents let them?”

Mom and Dad exchange looks. Ethan and I think they have their own sign language. They talk with their eyes.

“What?” I know they know something. “What aren't you telling me? Colt is
my
friend. I have a right to know.”

“If he'll be back in a week, I guess you can ask him yourself then,” Dad says. “Please pass those yummy mashed potatoes.”

I turn my gaze to Mom. She zips her lips closed, then swallows the invisible key. I get it. They're not talking.

11

Bullet

Wednesday after supper Ethan and I sit on our front porch to wait for the Bear. He flew all the way to his ranch in Tulsa, Oklahoma, on Tuesday just to pick up his horse. Now it's taking him all day to drive back with his horse trailer.

After a while, the sun goes down and the moon rises. A low whine of crickets starts up. I describe this to Ethan the best I can. A dog is barking far away somewhere. Munch hears it from inside our house and barks back.

Sometimes I think about this whole world of sound that Ethan misses out on, and it makes me sad. But I know God makes it up to him in ways the rest of us can't understand.

Are you sure Colt's mother doesn't know you're giving him a horse?
Ethan signs.

I'm sure.

But doesn't that look like a barn to you?

Ethan's right. All day long, eight men hammered away at what's starting to look like the frame for a two-story barn. Colt's backyard is almost twice as big as ours. It's already fenced in too. How great would that be if they were putting up a barn!

There he is!
Ethan signs.

A rusty, beat-up tan-and-silver horse trailer bounces along our road. It's too dark to see into the cab of the truck pulling it. But it's got to be the Bear behind the wheel.

He pulls into our driveway. Ethan and I run to meet him. I go straight to the back of the trailer and peer in. It's dark. All I can see is that the horse is about Dream's height.

“Out of the way,” the Bear roars.

I step back to give him room to put down the tailgate. “Why did you name him Bullet?” I ask. Ethan asked me that while we were sitting on the step. But I want to know too.

“He used to be fast as a speeding bullet.” The Bear walks up the tailgate plank.

“Colt loves to ride fast,” I say, getting even more excited.

Inside the trailer, something rattles. The trailer rocks. The Bear says, “Back!” And hooves
clang, clang
on the tailgate as the horse backs down the plank onto the driveway.

I stare at what looks like a gray ball of horse.
Maybe it's because it's so dark,
I tell myself.
Maybe in the light of day . . .

“I warned you he wasn't much to look at,” the Bear says.

I remember what Colt said about my horse looking more like a barrel than a barrel horse. He was wrong. But if any horse ever did look like a barrel, it would be this one. His sides stick out, and his belly looks too close to the ground. He's the fattest horse I've ever seen.

“My foreman's a lazy good-for-nothing,” the Bear growls. “He left ol' Bullet here out to pasture night and day through the spring. And that's a rich pasture. I admit it's going on three years since I was at the ranch. Bullet put on a few pounds.”

A few hundred pounds,
I think. I have the Bear and Bullet follow me into the backyard. When I open the gate, Dream nickers and starts trotting toward me.

Then she stops. I can tell by the way she's standing that her ears are back. Her nostrils are wide. I hear her foreleg pawing the ground. She does not like this newcomer.

“It's okay, Dream,” I call out. “We have a friend for you.”

Bullet whinnies. His whole chest jiggles like a barrel full of jelly. I walk over to him and stroke his neck. I should have given him a better greeting right off. “Don't worry, Bullet,” I murmur. His neck is firm. Muscled. It surprises me.

Dream whinnies at Bullet. But it doesn't sound like a warm greeting.

Bullet answers with a whimper.

“Okay,” I admit, stroking his neck. “Maybe we don't have a friend for you quite yet.”

Dream watches as we put Bullet in the lean-to. The Bear ties him in.

“The last thing this horse needs is fresh clover,” he says.

I know he's right. But I still think every horse should have food around almost all the time. “We have hay in Dad's shed,” I tell the Bear. “It's low calorie, compared to grass and grain.”

I sign to Ethan, and he brings Bullet an armful of hay to munch on overnight. He signs to me,
Thanks, Bear, for driving all the way to your ranch. And thanks for giving us your horse.

Ethan has a point. I thank the Bear for everything.

The Bear walks into the lean-to and checks Bullet's rope. Ethan has already untied the Bear's knot and replaced it with one of his own quick releases. Ethan is great with knots. “Nice,” the Bear mutters.

Dream stops pawing the ground. She does a half rear and takes off. Bucking and thrashing, she circles the yard. Then she slides to a halt a good distance from the lean-to and snorts. Again she paws the ground and lets out a whinny that sounds like a threat.

This time Bullet paws the ground and snorts in response.

Even Pinto Cat arches her back and hisses at Bullet from the safety of Dream's side of the yard.

“Hey! You guys are supposed to be friends,” I tell them.

The Bear stares from Dream to Bullet and back. “Long way from being friends. I'd say they're arguing.”

And I'd say they remind me of Colt and me.

* * *

As I fall asleep that night, I try to imagine riding with Colt—me on Dream and Colt on Bullet. But the dream keeps fading. Even I am having trouble imagining that inside that round barrel of horse, a real quarter horse is waiting to come out.

12

Changeups

The next morning I get up early enough to take Dream out for a short ride before school. I've dreamed about doing this. And now my dream has come true.

I just hope Colt feels the same way when I give him his horse on his birthday.

Dream and I head out of town. About a block from home, the gravel road turns to dirt. The sun is shining through the trees. Birds are singing. I hear a mourning dove, a woodpecker, a cardinal, and a lot of other chirping.

As if my horse can read my mind, she breaks into a canter, slow and easy.

I can imagine all kinds of things. But I can't imagine life getting any better than this moment right now. Everything in me feels thankful. And I wonder if it can be worship to be sitting on a pinto, feeling the morning breeze, and hearing the pounding of hooves on a dirt road.

After my ride, I brush Dream. Then I check on Bullet. “How's it going, ol' boy?”

I turn him out to the backyard. He goes straight for the grass. I run my hand down his neck, back, and hip. They feel equal in length. That's something to look for in a horse. It means good balance.

I move back to his head and scratch behind his ears. Dream loves this, but I guess Bullet doesn't. He flicks his ears and pulls his head away. I keep scratching until I find a spot right under his jaw. When I scratch there, he closes his eyes halfway and relaxes. “You like that, don't you, boy?”

I take my time examining Bullet's head. Small ears. Broad between the eyes. The only slender part on this horse is at the throat, where the halter's throatlatch goes. He has a nice, clean line there. I know that's a good sign—it usually means the horse can bend his head and neck easily. That's important for a barrel horse.