Eager Star (11 page)

Saturday I woke with a queasy stomach.
Get ready, Star. You have one week to become the greatest barrel racer this side of Texas! We can't disappoint Grant or his dad . . . or mine.

“Going to rain,” Lizzy announced when I came outside. She wiped her forehead with a hand that had been digging in dirt.

I glanced at the cloudless sky and had to squint at the sun. “You're crazy, Lizzy!”

She pulled three gross worms out of the ground. “Hear that?”

I listened. Towaco whinnied. Beach Boys music blared from Dad's bedroom. “What?”

“Frogs going crazy. Birds are quiet. Cows are lying down. Going to rain.” Lizzy's voice was matter-of-fact.

Now I heard the steady croaking from the pond. I knew I should believe Lizzy. She can tell the temperature by how fast crickets chirp. But I couldn't find a single cloud in the sky. “Frogs are just in a good mood!” I called, jogging to the barn.

I'd no sooner hooked one cross-tie to Star's halter than he jerked back so hard the strap pulled out of the wall.

“Star!” I grabbed the strap before it could slap him.

He didn't run away but stood trembling, the broken strap dangling from his halter.

I sighed and unhooked the strap. “Eager Star, you want to tell me how a Quarter Horse gets this nervous?” A truly nervous horse is one of the few lost causes.

“Who you rapping with?” Catman had sneaked up like a cat burglar. He wore a purple shirt with a peace sign on it, denim bell-bottoms, and sandals.

“Catman, if I don't turn Grant's nervous horse into a champion barrel racer by next Saturday, nobody's ever going to come to Winnie the horse gentler again!”

Catman peered past me. “No barrels?”

“That's just one of my problems. Mr. Baines had said he'd drop off barrels. Spidells might even agree to have the race here. But so far, no barrels.”

“Chill, Winnie.” Catman shuffled away.

I had Star saddled when Catman returned with Barker and Lizzy. Giving them a quick wave, I made a moving mount and settled into the Western saddle. I wasn't so sure I wanted an audience.

“I don't know how I let Catman talk me into this!” Lizzy shouted as the three of them joined Star and me in the pasture.

“Personally,” Barker said, “I've always wanted to be a barrel.”

“Be a what?” I asked as I stared at them.

“Three, right?” Catman, for once, had to squint up at
me
as Star danced in place. Then he burst into song and a skip-shuffle that might have been the polka. “Roll out the barrels! We'll have a barrel of fun!”

He grabbed Lizzy and spun her to the far end of the paddock. Still singing, he polka-ed Barker to make the third point of his triangle.

When I stopped laughing, I went back to struggling with Star while they measured their positions—Catman and Barker 90 feet apart, 105 feet from Lizzy.

Lizzy wasn't laughing. “Winnie, that monster won't run over me, will it? You can control it?”

“Of course!” I shouted, wondering if I could. A few clouds chugged through the sky, and a breeze kicked up as I forced Star to the starting line. “I'll circle Barker, then Catman, then all out to Lizzy. Right, right, left. Slow and easy.”

But Star strained at the bit and lunged before I could settle him at the starting line. Uncollected, he stumbled, then had to trot before breaking into a canter. We came at Barker in a wide-angled arc. I leaned to the right, but he overdid it and stumbled again. We circled Barker in a wide trot.

“Come on!” I urged Star to change leads. He didn't, and we bumped Catman, almost toppling him. On we ran straight toward Lizzy, picking up speed. Thunder clapped.

Lizzy screamed. She ran to the fence. “I can't be a barrel! Sorry!”

It didn't matter. The whole trial was a disaster. The sky opened, and down came the rain in sheets. Rumbling thunder shook the earth, and I knew the rain would last all day.

Catman and Barker hung out with me in the barn. I filled them in on the Brumby disaster. “Dad's making me write an apology letter to Ms. Brumby for calling her an old mare. Plus, I've still got Pat's assignment.” I turned back to Barker. “Wish your great-grandmother could write my paper.”

“What's happening with Ma Barker?” Catman asked. “The Colonel asks about her all the time. He digs her!”

Barker laughed. “Colonel Coolidge, Catman's great-grandpa. He's . . . well . . . unusual.”

As opposed to the rest of the normal Coolidges?
I made a mental note to steer clear of the colonel.

“Time to split.” Catman headed out, with Barker close behind.

Then Barker yelled back, “Winnie, tell Lizzy we'll pick her up for church at nine!”

Back in Wyoming, Mom had made sure our whole family went to church every Sunday. So far in Ohio, only Lizzy had gone. I missed it.

“Catman and I are coming too!” I hollered.

“The Colonel already told Bart and Claire and me we're ‘cancelling any reservations to heaven' by having plastic Santa lawn decorations at Christmas.”

“Doesn't work that way, Catman,” Barker said. “Hey! Guess who's acting pastor tomorrow. Ralph Evans, from the animal shelter!”

Catman chuckled. “Ralph's acting like a pastor?”

Barker laughed. “Until we get someone full-time.”

“Far out! This I gotta see!”

It was still raining Sunday when the Barkers drove up in their bright yellow van that should be a school bus. I was losing another day's training, and time was running out.

Lizzy and I dashed out and slid into the middle seats. Granny and Mrs. Barker sat in front with Luke. I fastened my seat belt and fingered the little belts attached to the floor.

“Dog belts, Winnie,” Mr. Barker explained from the backseat. “Your dad's invention.”

I didn't know whether to be proud or embarrassed.

The small church with a real steeple looked cut out of a Christmas card. Barkers took up a whole pew, with me on the end. A dozen people greeted Lizzy. Pat waved across the aisle, and Catman strolled in just as the music started. He slid in so close we couldn't fit a hymnal between us.

“You clean up pretty good,” Catman whispered, straightening his red tie, which was worn with a red T-shirt and red jeans. He shouted down the row as the organist pounded out “Amazing Grace,” “Cool tunes, Lizzy!”

“Told you!” Lizzy whispered back.

Then Catman must have spotted Granny at the end of the pew. “Ma Barker! The Colonel sends his love!”

Granny kept staring straight ahead.

“She digs him,” Catman whispered.

Nobody told us to pipe down. From the minute Ralph stood up, in khaki pants and tennis shoes, I felt like I'd been coming to this church my whole life. “Ever wonder what
praise
is?” he asked. “My granddaddy used to say, ‘Praise and punishment. Them's the only two choices.'” It was what Mom always said about horse training.

Catman leaned over and whispered, “Here we go!”

But Ralph smiled right at Catman. “Punishment? Jesus took care of that by dying for us. So if you've taken that gift, then I reckon that leaves praise. God, good job on that rain! And the fresh smell of your pine trees. And colors! Like the light streaming through your stained- glass windows!”

His whole sermon, if you can call it that, was about giving and getting praise. I listened to every word and even looked up the verses in the pew Bible. But the phrase that knocked me over every time he said it was “All God's creatures need praise!”

It wasn't until the drive home that it all clicked in.
Praise!
I hadn't been punishing Star. But I hadn't praised him much either. I wanted to win that race so much, I'd forgotten one of Mom's main rules: You can always find something to praise the horse for. I'd been so down on Eager Star, I'd even thought he might be a lemon, a lost cause. He probably sensed that's how I felt.

I couldn't wait to start over with him.

It rained all day Sunday, but I hung out with the horses and told them how amazing they were. Monday, Labor Day, I was in the barn when the sun came up.
Help me find things to praise Star for,
I prayed as I called the bay in from the pasture.
And great job on this sunrise!

I skipped the cross-ties and noticed something. Star always stood still with a dropped rein.

“Such a smart horse!” I told him.

His bridle had a high curbed bit, too punishing for my tastes. The bigger the curve in the metal, the harder it is on the horse's mouth. I switched to a snaffle, a broken bit that wouldn't hurt so much when the rider pulled back on the reins.

Mom taught me to guide horses with my legs and back, to give cues instead of using force to move a horse. I barely used the reins now as we trotted around the pasture.

Star tossed his head and didn't want to walk, but I noticed something else. He hardly sweated, even though the afternoon got hot. Nervous horses lather up a sweat even in cold weather, but not Eager Star.

“You're not nervous, are you, boy? Just eager to please.” I'd seen it when I first met the bay and Grant in the fields and called the horse Eager Star.

That practice changed everything. Star still broke leads and tried to spurt ahead of me. But when Catman and Barker dropped by, this time with Hawk as the third barrel, it was a whole different scene. I let Star take the barrels at a trot in the opposite direction because I noticed he favored the left lead. I praised the bay at every turn. And my “barrels” cheered as we rounded them. I ran the cloverleaf pattern three more times, the last at a canter, with Star only missing one lead.

Mr. Baines dropped off real barrels on Tuesday, and Star took to the pattern with no problem. He got better the next afternoon and the next. He wanted to please, and all I had to do was show him what I wanted. I started to believe that Eager Star could actually beat Summer's horse. In between practices with Star, I worked with Towaco, who was getting so gentle Lizzy could have ridden him.

Meanwhile Lizzy and Hawk planned my Friday night sleepover. I wished we hadn't made it the night before the big race. It would seem weird having Summer, the competition, under our roof. But I wanted the party to be a success almost as much as I wanted Star to be a success.

I kept expecting Grant to come by and work with his horse. Twice at school I'd even gotten up courage to ask him, but he made excuses.

Then Thursday evening, as I was unsaddling Star after a good workout—decent time through the cloverleaf with no missed leads—Grant and his dad showed up.

“I'll saddle him again if you want to ride,” I said.

Mr. Baines glared at Grant. “Didn't you call her like I told you to?”

Grant dug his hands in his pockets.

Mr. Baines sighed. “I thought my son was down here riding every night. And now he tells me he hasn't made a single practice, and the race is two days away! I'm sure Summer Spidell hasn't waited for the last minute!” He turned to me. “So, have you worked your magic on Bad Boy?”

“I think you'll be pleased with him.” I stroked Star's neck.

“I'll be pleased if he beats the pants off Spider.” He wheeled on Grant. “And you'll practice tomorrow as long as it takes! Got it?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Grant's dad mimicked the word. “We'll see how
fine
it is.” He turned back to me. “Winnie, okay with you if Grant does a dry run with barrels tomorrow? I'll come by after work and time him myself.”

“Sure.”

Grant and his dad stared at each other, neither one blinking. The hairs on my arm stood up. Star sidestepped, something he hadn't done in a couple of days. I knew he was picking up on the tension between Grant and his dad. He didn't like it any more than I did.

Finally, Mr. Baines left without another word. The car door slammed and tires squealed.

Grant moved closer to Star and me. “Tell me the truth, Winnie. What are my chances of winning with this horse?” He looked older in the dimly lit barn, with circles under his eyes nobody our age should have. It was hard to believe he was the same herd-leader Grant from AMS.