Don't You Trust Me? (6 page)

My brain had split in two. One half was celebrating the revelation of Uncle X's name; the other half was screaming,
No, no, no! No horseback riding lessons!
The momentary distraction caused by this split was fatal. I found myself handing the phone over to Uncle Karl.

Uncle Karl chatted with Dad for a while, arguing over who was going to pay for Brooke's riding lessons. Naturally, Brooke immediately said that there was nothing that would please her more than spending her Saturdays galloping around on the back of a beast that weighs three quarters of a ton and could crush her like a soda can beneath one hoof.

Uncle Karl got off the phone and handed it back to me.

“Well, this is good-bye for a while, cupcake,” said Dad. “You be a good girl and make me proud, okay?”

“Okay. Good-bye, Dad,” I said glumly, not even bothering to disguise my voice. However, this didn't matter; Dad was so pleased at having negotiated an amicable conversation with his rebellious daughter that he didn't
pick up on any subtle differences in pitch or tone. “Say bye to Mom for me,” I added quickly, not wanting to be handed back to the Ice Queen again.

Everybody was wreathed with smiles when we disconnected—Aunt Antonia, Uncle Karl, Cousin Brooke, and probably “Mom and Dad” in Los Angeles too. Everybody was beaming but me.

“This is going to be
so
much fun,” squealed Brooke, bouncing up and down on the couch. “I always
wanted
to learn to ride.”

“Yes, and Morgan already knows how, so she can give you pointers.”

Ha!
The closest I'd ever been to a horse had been when I was speeding by its pasture at sixty-five miles an hour on one of our rare outings in the country in my parents' ancient automobile.

Okay, you are probably thinking, “But you said that the cold are fearless!” I wasn't
afraid
of riding a horse. It was more like I was
offended
by it. How dumb is it to revert to such an outmoded form of transportation? We have
cars
.

Also, I have noticed that animals, even stupid gushy dogs like golden retrievers and labs, don't take to me much. It's funny . . . people are supposed to be so much smarter than other animals, but I find it's a lot easier to fool a teacher than a spaniel.

So I was wondering what a big powerful horse might
do with a passenger that it didn't like. Probably find a way to lose the passenger. I needed to stay in control, and I was going to have to use different techniques to manipulate a horse from the ones I used on Brooke.

I asked Google how to solve this problem, and sure enough, there were plenty of instructional videos on YouTube. The most helpful, believe it or not, was a Disney cartoon called “How to Ride a Horse.” Once you had gotten over the fact that the would-be horseback rider was this weird-looking dog named Goofy, there was actually a lot of useful information offered.

For instance, there was a discussion of the clothes you should wear—high boots, red jacket, hard hat, and riding crop. Personally, I'd have been happy to dispense with every single one except the last. I wanted that crop, which I immediately recognized as a tool for persuading the horse to do what I wanted, instead of what it wanted.

When I tentatively approached Aunt Antonia about a riding outfit, she and Brooke both immediately agreed that it would be much more fun to do it right, with the correct costume.

“And I
love
those boots,” Brooke added as we perused the riding goods available for purchase online.

I had to admit that the knee-high boots in combination with the skintight chaps and tailored jacket were a good look. For some reason none of the jackets were the
scarlet swallowtails that Goofy sported, but they were handsome anyway.

“And the hard hat sounds like a good safety precaution,” added Aunt Antonia. “Like wearing a helmet on a bicycle.”

I strongly suspected that Brooke, and possibly Aunt Antonia as well, would be softhearted when it came to animals, so I did not even mention the crop until we were almost done ordering. The crops were by far the cheapest part of the whole getup (those boots were nearly four hundred dollars a pair!), so it was easy to say, “Oh, and we'd better have a crop, too” right before we checked out.

I was right about Brooke.

“Oh, I don't want to
hit
the poor horse!” she objected.

I repeated the wisdom I had gleaned from another video—not Goofy this time. “You don't
hit
them. You
tap
them with it to let them know they can't do stuff like eating grass.”

“But why shouldn't the horse eat grass if it's hungry?”

I rolled my eyes. Brooke was going to be a total pushover, I could see. With any luck she would be such a bad rider that the instructor's attention would be entirely on her, and my own performance would pass unnoticed.

I WAS RIGHT. I WAS
a star at horseback riding. Brooke was more like a burned-out asteroid.

The riding clothes arrived on Friday; our first lesson was on Saturday, and school would begin the following Wednesday. On Saturday morning bright and early we drove out to Hidden Hollow Ranch, the riding stables where we were to be introduced to the world of equestrians. It was the sort of day that makes people like Brooke get all lyrical and poetic.

“How perfectly lovely it is!” she rhapsodized as we sailed over little green hills in the Miata. “The sky is the color of a robin's egg, and the air tastes like wine!”

“How would
you
know?” I inquired, raising skeptical eyebrows.

“I have
too
drunk wine,” she protested. “Lots of times.
Mom and Dad give me a glass at Thanksgiving every year. And champagne for New Year's. I don't much like it, except for the champagne,” she admitted.

“So, the air this morning tastes like the awful stuff your parents force you to drink on Thanksgiving?”

“Oh, Morgan! You know what I mean,” she said, laughing at me. “It's in-
tox
-icating!” she sang out as she rounded a curve.

Once we got to the stable—a long, low, white building and accompanying farmhouse-type dwelling with assorted dogs and chickens prowling around—we were welcomed by the proprietor, one Ms. Bunce.
Ms. Bounce,
I thought as she showed us over the place and introduced us to our rides for the morning. Everything about her bounced: her walk, her voice, her ponytailed hair. Or maybe she looked as though she were riding a horse while actually striding around on her own two feet. She was about forty and in pretty decent shape for her age; apparently, riding horses is good for the figure. She looked like she wouldn't take much guff from anybody, either human or horse. I made a mental note to be careful with her.

Brooke was over the moon with delight at the softness of the horses' noses, the “intelligence” and “nobility” of their gaze, and the pleasure of feeding them carrots and some old mushy apples.

I kept my hands to myself and did not look directly at any of the animals until Bounce indicated which one was to be my mount. “Chessie” was her name—a shortening, Bounce explained, of the word “chestnut,” as that was her coloration, with a white splash on the forehead.

Bounce brought the two horses outside and began to saddle up Brooke's, talking about the proper way to do it the whole time. I watched and listened carefully.

“So, I understand you've ridden before, Morgan,” said Bounce.

“Some,” I admitted, not wanting to appear too expert.

“Really? I got the impression you were pretty good.”

“Oh, you know.” I shrugged.

“Western or English?” she asked.

What? Western or English
what
?

However, I had to choose; she was waiting for an answer. Well, I myself was Western, being from California. Goofy the dog must be Western, since he was created by Walt Disney in Hollywood.

“Western,” I decided.

“Okay. The only thing is, we mostly ride English around here. I have a Western saddle, but I gave it to your friend. I think it's easier for first-timers, to give them a taste of riding, and then, if they like it, we switch them over to English tack. How'd you like to learn English?”

Only a second's thought convinced me that this was
a gift. If I was learning a new style, no one could blame me for making mistakes.

“I would be happy to,” I said graciously.

The English saddle was smaller, I could see. I also noticed that the Western saddle had a lovely thing sticking up in the front by which you could hold on.
My
saddle had no such convenient handle; I would have to manage without. In any case, both horses were soon ready to ride.

“Always approach the horse with a confident attitude,” was the advice given in the Goofy cartoon. Well, that was easy enough. My entire attitude toward life is confident. I understand that when ordinary people are faced with something they fear, they feel sick to their stomach and begin to sweat. Not me. The closest thing to fear I have ever known is a nagging suspicion that I am about to get caught, which simply makes me irritable.

I therefore walked up to Chessie and took control of her bridle, fixing her with a long, unsmiling stare. She sidled away from me to the length permitted by the bridle and then cast nervous glances at Bounce, and at Brooke's horse, both of whom were preoccupied with Brooke. No help there. She looked back at me.

Way back when I'd met that carnie guy, he'd told me that he recognized me for what I was because I “had that stare.” Now I knew what he meant. It's a predator's stare; the stare a wolf trains on the deer it plans to eat
for dinner. I kept looking at Chessie for several seconds longer, conveying the message,
Screw with me, horse, and you'll live to regret it.

She shivered all over and then lowered her head. She was still shooting little looks at me from time to time, but she stood meekly, waiting for me to mount.

Brooke naturally got lots of assistance mounting, while I was expected to take care of this myself, being an experienced rider. I decided to get it over with while everyone was distracted by Brooke's flailing around.

“Stay still,” I ordered Chessie in a stern undertone. I took a good grip of the saddle, stuck my left foot up into the left-side stirrup, and launched myself upward. Chessie stood like a statue beneath me as I pivoted and came to rest on her back, facing forward and astride.

Easy peasy.

“Good horse,” I said in a complacent tone. Chessie shivered again and turned her head to see what I was up to. I inserted my right foot into the right stirrup and gathered up the reins, letting go of the saddle. In order to feel secure and remain upright, I discovered, you had to grip with your legs.

A muffled shriek attracted my attention.

Brooke was in trouble. Bounce had had to call for assistance, and she held the horse still while two stable employees attempted to shove Brooke up onto the saddle. I watched her struggles with a pitying smile.

“Oh, please hold still, Miss Delilah,” pleaded Brooke. (“Miss Delilah”
being the ridiculous name of Brooke's steed.)

“She
is
holding still, at least so long as you don't knee her in the stomach, poor girl,” said Bounce. “Let's try again. One, two, three and . . . up!”

This time the little group of assistants managed to get Brooke up onto Miss Delilah's back. “Perhaps a pony next time,” mused Bounce. “Okay, now let go of the horn.” As Brooke simply looked dazed, Bounce explained. “The horn! That thing on the pommel. The thing you're holding in a death grip. Let go!”

“Let go?”
Brooke stared at Bounce disbelievingly.

“Yes. You need to hold on to the horse with your thighs, not your hands. You have to have your hands free for the reins.”

“Oh. Okay,” she said without enthusiasm.

After she had complied and taken up the reins, Bounce took a moment to turn around and check to see how I was doing. The stable help did as well.

I sat up a little straighter. I was conscious that I made rather a handsome picture—particularly in contrast to Brooke's sweaty terror—erect, calm, and composed in the saddle. Bounce nodded approvingly.

“Very nice. I can see you're an old hand. Brooke, watch your cousin. She knows what she's doing.”

I smiled. And to think I owed it all to Goofy.

Once Bounce had slung herself across a big white animal, we began to move toward the riding ring. Miss Delilah interrupted our progress by halting and beginning to eat grass. Brooke watched her helplessly.

Bounce ordered, “Don't let her eat, Brooke! You have to show her you're in charge. Give her a dig with your heels. A little harder. Brooke, she's taking advantage of you.”

Needless to say, Brooke had been relieved of her crop during the mounting fiasco, but I had retained mine. While we were standing around waiting for Brooke to deal with Miss Delilah's snack, my horse thought, for one split second, of taking a bite of grass herself. I transferred the reins into one hand and lowered the crop so it made contact with Chessie's flank. I bent forward over her neck and growled deep in my throat, but softly, so that only she and I could hear. Her head jerked back up, and she stood stone-still, the picture of equine good manners.