The Long Ride (13 page)

“Hello?” It was an adult, probably Emily's mother.

“Is Emily there, please?” Callie asked.

“Who's calling?”

“This is Callie Forester.”

There was a long pause. Emily's mother held her hand over the mouthpiece so that Callie couldn't hear what was being said. Finally the woman came back on.

“Uh, Callie, Emily is busy now and can't come to the phone.”

“It'll just take a minute. I promise,” said Callie.

“Not now,” the woman said.

“May I call later?” asked Callie.

“I don't think she'll be able to talk,” the woman said. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“I guess it's getting kind of late,” Callie said. “Tell her I'll call again.”

“Sure,” said Emily's mother. And then she hung up.

Callie couldn't remember a time when she'd done something as thoughtless as what she'd done to Emily, and it bothered her a lot that she wasn't getting a chance to apologize. Not that she really deserved it. She'd been rude. Apologizing wasn't going to change that. It probably wouldn't make Emily feel any better, but it might make Callie feel better. She couldn't wait until the next day. She needed to do something that night.

She turned to her desk and took out a sheet of stationery. If she wasn't able to talk to Emily, she could at least write to her.

Everything she wrote felt clumsy and inadequate, but by her fifth sheet of paper, she had something that expressed her shame and sincerity. It would do until they had a chance to talk.

Callie asked her mother if she could “borrow” some of the flowers from their backyard for a friend who wasn't feeling well. It wasn't exactly a lie. Her mother agreed. The impatiens were thriving. She should take some of those. Callie made a pretty arrangement, wrapped the stems in a moist paper towel, and bound it all together with aluminum foil. She put a ribbon around it and clipped her note to the ribbon.

Emily's house wasn't far from hers—perhaps a fifteen-minute walk or five minutes by bicycle. She told her parents she'd be back soon. Her mother said she hoped her friend would feel better. Her father had something else on his mind.

“Callie, can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Do you know anything about a scratch on the rear end of the van?”

“Rear?”

“Well, on the side, at the rear. I noticed it this morning. I meant to ask you earlier.”

“Um, no, Dad. I don't know anything about that,” she said. “I'll see you guys later!” She slipped out the door before her father could ask any more questions. Her father was as persistent as a committee chairman at a televised hearing when he started asking questions. She didn't need that right then. She had problems of her own to deal with without covering for anyone else.

THIRTEEN

Carole didn't work at Pine Hollow on Saturdays—at least she didn't get paid for any work she did at Pine Hollow on Saturdays. That made her all the more eager to be there Saturday mornings because it meant she could do the work she wanted to do: primarily looking after, and riding, her own horse.

This Saturday was going to be a little different. She had to make good on her promise to exercise Fez. Once that was done, she could look after Starlight, and then that afternoon, she and Stevie were going to surprise Lisa by meeting her at the airport. The girls had said good-bye to one another about four times on the phone the night before, amid excited conversations about Lisa's potential job on Skye's show in California. Lisa didn't know she was going to see her friends one more time. This would be a good surprise.

Carole opened the door and checked in at the office. Emily handled the office on Saturday mornings, and she was busily assigning horses for the early-morning class. The plain, battered desk had a small vase of flowers on it.

“What's the occasion?” Carole asked, pointing to the flowers.

“They were a gift,” Emily said.

“From an admirer?”

“Hardly. More like an apologizer.”

“So? Give,” said Carole.

“Kind of strange, but a little nice,” Emily said. “It was Callie. Yesterday she asked me for help, which I couldn't give her because running is not my best event, but I did offer to call Ben for her. That ticked her off and she got huffy and threatened to report me to Max or some such. I didn't pay much attention. I guess somebody told her about me and she was embarrassed—embarrassed enough to get my phone number, but when she called, I was getting therapy, and then I went out to the movies with my parents. When we got home, Callie had left these flowers on our doorstep, along with the nicest note.”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Emily. “Of course, that made me feel bad because I should have explained in the first place.”

“You don't have to explain anything,” Carole said.

“No, normally I don't. My crutches do it for me. But she couldn't see my crutches. I owed her an explanation. You know I never expect anybody's sympathy—I don't need it—but I do need some understanding, and the only way people can understand is if they have information. Callie didn't have the necessary information. That made her feel like a jerk.”

“Is that what she wrote?”

“Just that she felt she'd behaved like a jerk and she hoped I'd give her a second chance.”

“And?”

“Well, sure,” said Emily. “She tried to do the right thing. And the flowers are pretty.”

“I guess,” Carole said. “They sure dress up that messy old desk.”

“So, are you going to take Starlight out now?”

“No, I'm going to work with Fez first.”

“Operation Impress the Congressman's Daughter?”

“No, more like Operation Big Mouth,” Carole said.

“Someday soon, you'll find a way to tell Callie that Pine Hollow really doesn't exercise boarders for free.”

“If this horse were any fun to ride, I'd keep on doing it forever,” said Carole. “But he's not. He's a pain.”

“You mean you've finally met a horse you don't like?”

“‘Don't like' may be a little strong. Let me just say that I haven't had much fun riding him. So far we've spent all our time together trying to decide who's in charge. He's winning.”

“You'll find a way. You always do,” Emily said.

Carole carried that thought to Fez's stall.

Fez was as feisty as ever when Carole passed him on the way to the tack room. Even tacking up this horse was a chore.

“Morning, Ben,” she said. Ben was sitting in a corner of the tack room adjusting the leathers on the saddles that the youngest riders would use that morning.

“Morning, Carole,” he said. “You working with Starlight?”

“Not yet. Fez comes first,” she said. “Can you give me a hand with his tack?”

“Sure,” Ben said. He set aside the leathers he'd been working on and helped Carole carry Fez's saddle to his stall. They both knew it wasn't carrying the saddle that Carole needed help with. It was putting the saddle on the irritable horse.

Carole approached Fez cautiously and clipped a lead rope on him for Ben to hold while she put on the saddle. Fez never stopped moving while Carole dodged his prancing.

“This darn horse,” she hissed. “He's as bad as his owner!”

“She's not so bad,” Ben said quietly. “Better than her brother.”

That surprised Carole a little.

“What's the matter with her brother?”

“Talks a lot,” said Ben.

Carole laughed to herself. Ben wasn't much of a talker. No wonder he resented Scott, who talked as easily as some people breathed. Carole buckled the girth on the saddle and tightened it. Fez didn't play games by holding his breath while she tightened the girth. That was the first really nice thing she could say about the horse.

Ben held Fez's head steady with the lead rope while Carole coaxed him into his bridle, and then he was ready for his ride—with little more than twice the effort any other horse in the stable required for tacking up.

Carole led him out to the indoor ring. She thought it might be wise to work inside where there would be fewer distractions than outside. Also, the younger riders would be using the outdoor schooling ring, and if there was a chance Fez might run away, Carole didn't want it to happen where anyone could be hurt.

Max was there, sitting on a bench, jotting out his lesson plan.

“What're you up to?” he asked. “I thought you'd be riding Starlight now.”

“Well, I sort of told Callie I'd give this guy a workout,” Carole said. Fez backed off and tugged at the reins, nearly pulling them out of Carole's hands. She gripped more tightly.

“He's a handful. He'll do well learning a few things from you,” said Max.

Carole was flattered that Max thought she could teach this fellow anything, but not at all confident he was right.

“Make sure you touch the good-luck horseshoe before you climb aboard,” he said.

Maybe he wasn't so sure Carole could do anything with him. Sighing, she took Fez over to the mounting block, climbed into the saddle, walked him past the horseshoe—which she tagged quickly—and returned to the ring.

Carole began by walking Fez in circles, clockwise and then counterclockwise, to warm him up a bit. He did all right at that, so she asked him to trot. He cantered. She slowed him down to a walk again and began the process over. It was the same thing they'd gone through two days before. She wasn't any more successful, and it wasn't any more fun.

Carole wished Max weren't sitting there. She knew how busy he was, and she hated to disturb him, especially when she was riding so badly. His eyes were mostly on his paperwork, but Carole knew he wasn't missing anything. All his riders were amazed by how many mistakes he could see in a whole classful of riders all at once. The record was eight simultaneous errors, though there were those who suspected that his stream of corrections—“Heels down, hands steady, eyes ahead, legs straight, seat back, shoulders up, chin in—oh, and tuck in your shirttails!”—was more automatic than actual. They were all common errors among new riders, even the shirttails.

The third time Fez bolted to a canter when asked for a trot, Max stopped pretending to work on his lesson plan. He set his papers down and turned his full attention to Carole's struggle with Fez.

Carole tried to ignore Max and to convince the horse to listen to her.

Finally Max interrupted her efforts. “Carole, you're going about this all wrong,” he said.

She drew to a halt. “I know, Max. I should keep my hands steady, but he keeps yanking at them. It's almost impossible.”

“No, I don't mean that. It's not your form, it's your approach. You're letting him be the boss. From the moment you walked in here with him, it was apparent who was in charge—and it wasn't you.”

Carole felt herself flush with anger. She knew better than to express it, though. What she was angry about was simply the truth.

“So?” she said, containing her irritation.

“So, think about it. This is a strong, fiery horse. It's in his nature to challenge authority. If the authority doesn't challenge him back, he's going to assume he's in charge, and, clearly, that's what's happened. You've lost control, and you're never going to get it back.”

“Never?” Carole asked weakly.

“Not now, not this way,” said Max. “You're being too nice to him.”

“I can't hurt a horse, Max!” Carole protested.

“I'm not suggesting that you do,” he said. “But I do suggest that you put him away now.”

“He needs the exercise,” Carole said. “And I don't want to give up on him. I'm better than that.”

“Yes, you are,” said Max. “So here's what you're going to do. You are going to start all over again, from the very beginning. You have to be in charge, and he has to know it. I don't know why it is that you thought this particular horse wanted a velvet-glove treatment, but you were wrong. He needs a strong hand, a firm voice, a powerful leader. You've been elected. Go do the job.” Max sat back down on the bench, crossed his arms in front of him, and waited to see what Carole would do.

Carole had a world of choices in front of her. She could try striking the horse, but she never thought that was the right way. She could try yelling at him. She rejected that because he hadn't shown any indication that he was deaf, so there would be no point. She could yank back at his reins and abuse him in the same way he was trying to get the jump on her, but she didn't like it when he did it to her, so she doubted he'd like it if she returned the favor. Or she could, as Max suggested, start all over again.

She dismounted and led Fez back to his stall. She removed his tack, gave him a quick brushing, some fresh water, and a bite of hay. Then she left him alone.

Ten minutes later she reappeared at his stall, carrying his saddle and his bridle. As she approached the stall, instead of looking fearful—the way she felt—she glared directly into Fez's eyes. He backed up. She wasn't actually threatening him in any way that humans understood. She was merely challenging him in a way horses understood. Fez stood still and glared back.

Without showing any hesitation, Carole clipped a lead rope on him, cross-tied him, and put his saddle back on. She talked to him because it was almost impossible for her not to talk to a horse while she worked on him, but it was in a matter-of-fact tone, not a soothing tone or a fearful one. Her theory was that if she was able to fool him into thinking she wasn't afraid of him and didn't expect him to misbehave, he might not intimidate her and act up.

He stood quite still while she tacked him up. When she took hold of his reins and led him back to the ring, she looked straight ahead. Looking back at him would have appeared questioning. She wasn't in a mood to question anything. She was being positive. He was, for the first time, being relatively obedient. He was still no Starlight or Belle. He wasn't in the least bit docile, but he was obedient. That was all Carole needed from him.