Cowboy Colt (8 page)

Flecks of white are sprinkled through the gray on his face, like white freckles. But he has a pretty face. A good head.

I back up and get an overall look at Bullet. It's hard to see past the fat and roundness. But his body is square. That's something Mr. Harper says he looks for in a quarter horse. Plus, his legs are straight and not too fine boned. Bullet has good shoulders. Solid withers. And a strong back, even if it is too round and broad right now.

“Bullet, you are going to make Colt Stevens a great quarter horse,” I whisper. “I just hope he can see that.”

When I leave for school, the two horses are on opposite ends of the yard. They aren't fighting. But they sure aren't acting like friends.

* * *

“Wait until you see what I got Colt for his birthday!” Larissa exclaims.

We're at lunch on Thursday. All anybody can talk about is Colt's birthday party. And Colt isn't even here to enjoy it.

“I still can't believe I'm going to miss the whole party,” Ashley complains. “I wish Dad wouldn't make me go to that horse show in Breckenridge. What did you get Colt, Larissa?”

Larissa shakes her head. “I'm not telling. One of you might spoil the surprise.” She looks at me a second too long. “But I'll give you a clue—electronic!”

“Electronic?” Cassie repeats.

“And handheld,” Larissa adds. “But that's all I'm saying.”

They bat around other ideas for gifts. I keep my mouth shut. I don't want anybody to know what my gift is until Colt sees Bullet for himself.

Ethan beats me home after school. I find him sitting on our front step, watching the building going up across the street.

I sit beside him and stare into Colt's yard.
Wow! How did they build it so fast?
The entire frame is up, filled in, with a big door in front and high windows. Through the front windows you can see a loft upstairs and stalls downstairs.

Are you sure Colt's parents don't know he's getting a horse for his birthday?
Ethan signs.

How could they?

Maybe they saw Bullet and figured it out.
He shields his eyes from the sun for a better look.
It's definitely a barn.

I shake my head.
No way. They started building before we got Bullet.

I don't think I'll ever understand Colt's parents. Maybe they're just building that thing to make their place look better. Maybe they're running out of room in the garage for all Mr. Stevens's toys. He has a mini tractor, a riding mower, weed whackers, power washers. Maybe he's going to collect more antique cars or something. He used to try to get Colt to work on old fancy cars with him. But Colt was never into cars. He's like me. He would rather have a horse.

* * *

Friday night we're all at the ballpark an hour early. The Bear is already there. He and Ethan's coach are eating hot dogs, although the snack stand isn't even open yet.

When the other team arrives, the Bear leaves the field and comes to sit with us in the bleachers. He's showing teeth. I'm almost sure he's smiling.

We stand for the national anthem. Then the announcer introduces the players from both sides.

I know this is a Youth League game. These kids are just second graders. The only people in the stands are families of the kids. But it still feels like the World Series to me.

The scratchy speakers squeal. Then the announcer says, “And the starting home pitcher will be Ethan James.”

We're on our feet, screaming so loud we drown out the groans of a few parents who must have seen my brother pitch in the last game.

“Do you think I should sit in the dugout or behind the plate to sign for Ethan?” I ask the Bear.

He leans down to answer. “Neither. He knows the catcher's signs. That's all he needs, just like every pitcher.”

I've never thought about that. Baseball players have their own sign language. Maybe Ethan has an advantage there.

Mom, Dad, the Bear, and I are on our feet for Ethan's first pitch. It's a strike. We scream. Ethan has to at least feel the sound vibrations. Two more strikes, and the batter is out. Mom whistles so loud my ears ache.

After the third out, our Ethan is a hero. His teammates pat him on the back. They actually look like they're all friends . . . until Ethan bats.

I know that in some leagues pitchers don't have to bat. I wish my brother could switch to those leagues. He strikes out in three pitches.

“Can't help with that,” the Bear mutters. “I didn't get to be the Bear by batting.”

“That's okay,” I tell him. “I have a friend, my best friend, who's a great batter. He'll help Ethan.” I guess I'm kind of glad Ethan still needs Colt.

After three innings my brother has given up only two hits. No runs. Even I can see that his fastball is really fast. But his best pitches are the slow ones he surprises the batter with. Kids are striking before the ball reaches the plate. That's the changeup the Bear taught him.

When the coach starts to put Ethan in again for the bottom of the fourth inning, the Bear storms out of the bleachers and onto the field. Play stops until he has a word with the coach. Then there's a change of pitcher and Ethan has to go sit on the bench.

“Why did you do that?” I demand when the Bear gets back. “Ethan was doing great.”

“If you want him to keep doing great, he has to take care of his arm. He's thrown enough pitches for one day.” The Bear stares at me. I guess he can tell I don't like Ethan being on the bench again. “You want to know how Bullet has so much life left in him?”

I nod, hoping he's right about Bullet having a lot of life left.

“I rode him hard. But I always quit before I rode him out.”

I think about that for a minute. “So you're saying Bullet can still, like, maybe do the barrels? Or run a figure eight?”

“You'll have to be careful until that weight comes off,” the Bear warns. “But Bullet's still got his stuff. How 'bout I show you tomorrow morning?”

13

The Party

Saturday morning when I go out to the backyard, I sense something has changed. Then I notice what's different: Dream and Bullet are grazing just a couple of feet apart. You can't make two horses be friends any more than you can make two people be friends. But sooner or later, horses work it out. And it looks like that's what's happened with Dream and Bullet. Their tails switch together. And their ears flick from side to side—relaxed, not angry.

All horses need to know where they belong in a herd. Even a herd of two. One has to be the leader, and the other agrees to follow. I can tell by the way Bullet keeps eyeing Dream that my horse is the leader. They have their pecking order set now. And both horses are happier. It's almost too bad Bullet has to live at Colt's.

I have time for a good ride before getting ready for Colt's party. Dream and I circle past the deserted farm at the end of our dirt road and come in the other side of town. I'm thinking I'll make a morning ride part of every day.

When I lead my horse into the backyard, Ethan meets me at the gate. He holds up his hand to stop me.

I start to protest. Then I see why.

The Bear is mounted on Bullet. They're standing square in the middle of the yard. Bullet's Western saddle is the old-school kind, leather and hand carved, with covers on the wooden stirrups and a super-wide saddle horn, where cowboys would loop ropes for lassoing cows.

I wouldn't have thought it was possible, but the Bear looks like a real cowboy.

Bullet stands still as a statue. His ears point straight ahead. His front hooves line up straight, and so do the back ones.

“Pivot left,” the Bear calls.

Instantly Bullet swings both forelegs to the left. He barely shifts his hindquarters.

“Pivot right!” Before the Bear even has the words out, his horse responds. Then, with a tiny turn of the Bear's wrist, Bullet picks up the signal and pivots in a full circle.

The Bear has Bullet move backward. The horse keeps backing fast until the Bear says, “Whoa.”

They face the back of the yard. Then they take off at a gallop, weaving around invisible barrels, before turning a perfect figure eight.

The Bear pulls up his horse inches from us. “Whoa, boy.” In one smooth motion, he dismounts. “That's it until the old boy loses weight. You make sure your friend knows to go easy.”

I'm as silent as Ethan. Speechless. Bullet is the perfect horse for Colt. It's what he has always dreamed of.

* * *

Colt's home!
Ethan signs.

I'm brushing my hair, trying to get it to stay out of my face. But the humidity has my stray curls dancing every which way. I've decided on a red shirt that's one of my favorites. And blue jeans. I thought about shorts. But I'm hoping Colt might want to go for a ride with me after everybody leaves.

Ethan shifts from foot to foot. I don't think he's used to seeing me stand in front of a mirror this long.
I saw Colt's dad drive him in a minute ago. He almost missed his own party. Are you taking Bullet over there?

I give up on my hair.
No. I'll wait until everybody else goes home. Then I'll bring Colt over here. I need to do one last thing.

Ethan follows me to Mom's ribbon drawer in the hall closet. I take a whole roll of green, Colt's favorite color, and a pair of scissors. Together Ethan and I tie Bullet into the lean-to so Colt won't see him and spoil the surprise. Then we fasten a big bow around his neck.

“Sorry, boy,” I tell him, scratching right where he likes it. “You're a real cow horse. And I'll never make you wear a bow again. Promise.”

* * *

Cassie and Rashawn pile out of Cassie's car as I walk up to Colt's house. I wave, and they wave back and wait for me.

Rashawn's carrying a big box wrapped in cute cowboy paper.

“We both went in on the present,” Cassie says. “It's a rope thing. Like a cowboy's lariat. Colt can learn rope tricks with it.”

“It comes with a book on doing rope tricks and everything. Do you think Colt will like it?” Rashawn asks.

“He'll
love
it!” It's all I can do not to spill my secret to them. I can see Cassie looking for my gift. But they don't ask.

Mrs. Stevens is standing on the front porch, welcoming everyone. She looks friendlier than I've ever seen her. “Come on in, girls! We've got lemonade on the table. And all kinds of snacks.”

I nod to her as we walk by. But she's already greeting the kids behind us.

We walk in, and the whole place is lit up like Christmas. Little lights run from one end of the hall all through the house. Streamers form a paper tent over the huge dining table. And there must be a hundred balloons floating around everywhere.

“Wow!” Cassie says.

Rashawn and I just stare until the boys behind us shove us farther into the room. “I've never seen so much food!” Rashawn says. I agree.

Colt's dad walks in from the kitchen. At least a dozen backpacks dangle from his outstretched arms. And not just any backpacks. They're leather. Real leather. “Did you girls get your party favors yet?”

Cassie pulls one off the end of Mr. Stevens's arm. “These are party favors? For us?”

“Just a little something I picked up for Colt's friends this weekend.” He hands one to Rashawn and one to me. Then he glances at his wife.

She glares back. I'm thinking she didn't know about the packs and doesn't like the idea much. But I take one anyway.

“These must have cost more than our gift,” Rashawn whispers.

We're still looking at the backpacks when Colt's mom rushes in with a basketful of real footballs and basketballs. “Help yourselves!” she shouts. “One for each of Colt's guests.”

The guys grab for the footballs and basketballs. So do the girls. There are pink basketballs and striped footballs too. When they're almost gone, Cassie takes three of the balls that are left and puts one in each of our packs.

“Unbelievable, huh?” Cassie says. “Larissa kept saying this was going to be some party. Guess she was right.”

I look around for Larissa and find her talking to Colt's mom. Mrs. Stevens looks like she wants to escape.

Before long the guys are all outside playing football with Mr. Stevens. Some of the girls are shooting baskets. Colt is out with the guys. I haven't even gotten a chance to wish him happy birthday yet.

I've gone back for a refill on the lemonade when I hear Mrs. Stevens shouting, “I told you to be here at one o'clock sharp!”

I glance into the kitchen. She's standing at the counter, her back to me. And she's screaming into her cell. “You'd better be here in ten minutes, or I'm not paying you a penny for the delivery. Do you hear me?”

I'm thinking the poor person on the other end of the phone could hear her without a phone. I move away from the door.