On the Buckle Page 3

  An old door probably taken from a porch somewhere led upstairs where there was a square living room with two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pasture. Beyond was a bedroom with a tiny window for viewing the stall below in case of a sick horse. A galley kitchen had a drop-leaf table and two chairs at one end. The bathroom completed my digs. It all needed elbow grease too, but the smell wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. It was more than I’d ever had to myself.

  “I’ve stocked the fridge to get you started, and here are the phone numbers you’ll need.” He indicated a pad of paper on the counter with the farmhouse, his cell phone and pager, Hank’s number and Norman’s, blacksmith, vet. Funny, the search and rescue squad I needed weren’t listed.

  “You won’t be able to get hold of me most of tomorrow, but you can leave a message on my voice mail. Only page me if it’s an emergency.”

  I nodded. Noire cozied up to Malcolm, sticking her nose under his kilt. Without looking down, he rubbed her ears. “Haven’t had time for a dog. It’ll be nice to have one around.” He glanced at her and smiled a genuine unguarded smile, then looked at me. “Can I help you bring your stuff in?” He started down the stairs.

  “Thanks. I can manage. What time in the morning?”

  “Six okay?”

  I followed so I could get my suitcase and park the truck and trailer. “Fine.” Horse shows require brutal hours and lots of exhaustion; this would be easy.

  In the barn, a glossy, fat, black cat wobbled down the aisle and curled around Malcolm’s ankle. He picked the cat up and cradled it to his chest, making it purr.

  “Old Henry here wandered in a few weeks ago, looking pretty scrawny.” He squatted to put the cat down and I averted my eyes in case that kilt rode too far up his thighs. “His food’s in the feed room too.”

  “If you ask me, Henry looks like he needs a diet.”

  “You’re probably right. But he still manages to catch the mice.” He gave Henry a final pat. “See you bright and early.”

  I waited for him to leave, hefted Henry, felt his belly and checked under his tail. I hoped Malcolm liked cats, because the kittens would be along any day.

  ~~~

  By 5:45 a.m., I had the horses fed, Cali’s stall picked, aisle swept, and Cali and Fergus groomed and tacked up. The stalls were going to take some work. Fresh straw had been piled over layers of wet and manure—a regular shit lasagna. I wiped down Malcolm’s saddle and bridle, but it needed serious scraping to remove the ground-in sweat. I did plan to keep the job for a year.

  I hadn’t had much time for reflection the night before, or even to call Pen. I crashed the second I hit the lumpy mattress, Noire sprawled next to me and Henry—Henrietta—snug behind my knees, and slept like I always do—deeply, soundly, dreamlessly. But I thought this wouldn’t be hard. Malcolm gave me free rein and wouldn’t be around. Even if he were, he appeared a decent guy to work for.

  He walked in, duded up in boots and breeches and a polo shirt; short sleeves straining around hard biceps. I shouldn’t say duded up. After all, I wore the same. But men always look duded up when they don boots and breeches. Not all men look quite as good in them as Malcolm did, though. He kept himself in shape—the close knit of riding pants is not forgiving of bodily imperfection. I couldn’t find anything to complain about in the outline of his thighs and…the rest.

  I was just being objective. If you have to look at someone in what amounts to heavyweight tights, male or female, that person should look good in them.

  At five-foot-seven, 130 pounds, and “all leg,” as my uncle says, I could model for the tack catalogs. This is not vanity, just fact. The other facts of my appearance are another matter. On a good day, my hair lays in tame, loose waves. Not quite as smooth as my mother’s sleek locks, but manageable. On damp or humid days—and most days on Long Island are one or the other—I sprout my dad’s wiry mess, which defies all efforts to contain it. No amount of mousse or clips keeps it from sproinging loose.

  I did get mom’s svelte dancer’s body, however, her natural grace and balance—which really pays off in the saddle—and her “elegant” nose—read: long. My dark-brown eyes are too close together, and pretty boring except for their lashes. No need for mascara there. I got the not-quite-red, not-quite-brown color of Dad’s hair. Fortunately, my skin has my mother’s olive Italian coloring. My father’s skin is so white he reflects the sun. When you spend as much time outside as I do, it helps not to have to worry about frying to a crisp. I use sunscreen anyway. I’ve seen too many seasoned horsewomen who looked like they should use saddle soap on their faces.

  Malcolm frowned at Fergus, then directed a hard look at me. His tone, when he spoke, was not nice at all.

  “Don’t you think I can get my own horse ready?”

  I stared at him for a sec, finished buckling Cali’s throatlatch, and said, “Of course. Thought you’d be in a hurry.”

  He jerked the stall door open, grabbed the reins and led Fergus out without a backward glance.

  Prick.

  I followed, Cali in tow. Malcolm’s shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, and I could see they were bunched, tense. What the hell did I do? You could bet I’d never tack up his freaking horse again, that’s for sure. Jesus. So much for him being a great guy to work for. And so much for the pleasant morning ride I'd been looking forward to.

  Outside, it was cool yet, and still. Malcolm had already mounted. He’d double-checked his girth first and adjusted Fergus’ forelock over the brow band. That’s good. Always inspect everything when someone else tacks up your horse. He didn’t look at me, just waited. I took my time because I'd just realized how gorgeous the moment was. Sunlight streaked through the trees. One bird sang, and that was all I could hear. Between trills, I listened for other sounds, but there were none. No drone of traffic, dogs barking in the distance, hum of high-tension wires, airplanes, voices, radio, television, nothing. It was so quiet I could hear the cows tearing grass forty feet away.

  Puffs of mist clinging to the low areas of the fields began to rise and congeal. Thin, high clouds turned pink. I'd seen a lot of sunrises, but none quite as serene and perfect as this. I wanted to be pissed at Malcolm, but I couldn’t. Noire jumped up and down and whimpered, eager to be smelling new smells, and Cali champed her bit. The girls were ready for a ride, and I wouldn’t let one grumpy guy ruin it for us.

  I mounted, bending and unbending carefully so as not to stress my thighs, which were screaming, but only when I moved. The damage wasn’t pretty. I could count all eight nails of Fawny-Wawny’s shoes in black-and-blue relief on my skin.

  I urged Cali next to Fergus. The old thoroughbred flattened his ears. Cali nipped his neck, just missing Malcolm’s rein. Fergus jumped, curled his lip, and bellowed.

  “Hey.” Malcolm smacked Fergus on the neck. “Mind your manners, old man.”

  We set off up the drive. Cali bared her teeth if Fergus swayed too close. The bird flitted from its perch on the fence to a telephone wire overhead.

  “What kind of bird is that?”

  “Meadowlark.”

  I waited a beat. He didn’t offer more. So much for that conversation opener.

  We followed the drive to the right, then took a cut through the tree line.

  On the other side of the trees dense new growth grew verdant in a flat field. We turned left and stayed at the edge.

  “This is my main hay field,” Malcolm said. “Timothy and brome. Some red clover and orchard grass.”

  “You bale your own hay?” I really should have paid closer attention to Pen. But I hadn’t wanted to know.

  “You understand this is a working farm?”

  Oh man, he wanted to punish me. I gritted my teeth and nodded. “I saw the herd of cows. You milk them?”

  He didn’t have to turn for me to know he'd set his jaw.

  “Those are beef cattle and they’re Hank’s. He rents the pasture.”

  I cast a glance heavenward and there I saw two very large, dark b
irds circling, gliding on an unseen updraft.

  “What are those?” I pointed.

  “Vultures.”

  Oh, my, God. “Vultures.” Not twenty-four hours into my year and I already had vultures circling overhead. Not a good sign. “You have vultures?”

  “Yes. Turkey vultures, to be precise.”

  I could see I was in a losing situation conversation-wise, so tried a different tack. We had clear sailing for a couple hundred yards. “Shall we see if the horses want to stretch their legs?”

  “All right,” he said, his tone going from sarcastic to challenging.

  With a sigh, I realized I couldn’t do anything right this morning. He gathered Fergus’ reins, and the horse leapt with a buck into canter. Cali tossed her head and went after him. If he wanted to race, we would win. Cali was quick, and much younger than Fergus. But I wouldn’t take the bait. Not this time, anyway. I held Cali back and let Malcolm take the lead.

  We galloped toward a tree line and a shallow creek. Malcolm didn’t slow, and Fergus sailed over the narrow band of water, bucking again on landing. Out of the woods along another field planted in neat rows. Cali skipped over the creek and pulled to catch up.

  Malcolm kept his weight in his heels, his seat out of the saddle, and didn’t hang on the horse’s mouth. He checked on me and appeared pleased I was nearly on his tail. We curved around a spit of trees and kept skirting the field, then jumped a low gate and dove into deeper woods. After that, we slowed, then stopped. Sunlight lit a small cloud of dust kicked up by the horses. Malcolm gave Fergus a big pat on the neck, and turned to me, a broad grin on his face.

  I smiled and nodded. He didn’t have to say anything. There’s nothing like a game riding partner—human or equine.

  I rubbed Cali’s withers. We walked along a trail wide enough for two to ride abreast while the horses caught their breath. “Good,” I said. The pleasant aroma of sweat mixed with something sweet carried on the air.

  “Yes,” he replied. “It is good to have someone to ride with.”

  Again, I wondered about Brooke. I almost asked, but decided against it. He ran too hot and cold to judge.

  “Have you hunted her?” he asked.

  For a second, my mind still on Brooke, my brain supplied a juicy mental image. Then I realized he meant Cali. “No, but we’ve done cross-country work. She’s tough despite her delicate appearance.”

  He nodded. “Thoroughbreds are like that. Surprising.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  Malcolm patted Fergus on the neck again. “This one’s full of surprises, anyway. Keeps me on my toes. I like that.”

  Now, there was a valuable piece of information.

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-one. I’ve had him fifteen years.”

  “I can see in his eyes that he’s a wise old fellow, although twenty isn’t so old, really. I’ve known plenty of horses that were still competing at that age. He likes you, that’s for sure.” Like I said, I’m better at reading horses than people, and I could always tell when one appreciated his owner.

  “He’s been good to me.”

  Fergus snorted, and we both laughed. “Looks like you’ve been good to him, too.”

  We stayed under the trees. The creek widened and its shallow depth revealed an inviting sandy bottom. On the other side, a narrow trail held to the curving bank. Malcolm pulled up, inhaled deeply.

  “This is my favorite spot on the farm.”

  Holy mackerel, I thought. We’re sharing intimate info on our first ride. I nodded. Tiny purple and blue wildflowers saturated the ground. The creek snuck down a short drop and tinkled over some rocks. Above, light-skinned trees fingered the brightening sky. This was one of those spots that would change but be splendid with each season. I would return.

  “It is beautiful,” I said. “Peaceful. If there were a spot like this back where I come from, it would either be fenced off to preserve it, or so crowded with others trying to appreciate it, it’d be gone overnight.” I took a deep breath. No exhaust fumes or food smells polluted the pure scent of nature. That was different. “You’re lucky to have this all to yourself.”

  “I know it.” He looked around at the trees and the creek and the flowers. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

  Okay, then. The man didn’t like to share.

  “This is the main trail the riders use,” he said as we walked on. “There’s another for more experienced riders. It even has a few jumps on it.”

  “How do you know who’s experienced enough?”

  “You determine that when you give them their lessons.”

  I didn’t mean to jerk the reins. Cali stopped with an annoyed huff, and I stared at Malcolm, probably looking stupid with my mouth hanging open. The birds still sang, and I could hear Noire splashing in the water, and feel Cali’s steady breathing between my legs, but my own had stopped. He didn’t just say I would be giving riding lessons, did he? No, no, no. I misunderstood, surely. Pen had said I didn’t have to teach riding, right? I couldn’t, and that was that. Yes, that was that, and I would not think of it again until I could talk to Penny. Which I would be doing the moment we got back to the barn.

  We rode on, and he showed me another hay field, corn, winter wheat, and one patch that would be in soybeans. I scarcely noticed. My hands had grown cold, my neck prickly, my innards soft.

  “Hank takes care of the crops and the livestock for the most part,” he said. “Everyone pitches in when we do hay.”

  So, that’s what “helping out around the farm” meant. I’d stacked plenty of hay. “Sounds like fun,” I mumbled.

  In my mind, I kissed the trust fund good-bye. I could not do the job expected, and even if I could, I was sure to die of boredom before the year’s end.

  - 4 -

  “I’m in hell, Penny, and you sent me here.”

  I called her the moment I put down my sweaty tack and saw Malcolm leave. It was almost nine o’clock on the east coast. On a Sunday morning at Pen’s house that meant fluffing her hair and yelling at Frank to get out of bed so they could go to church. I could hear him grumbling in the background and the toilet flushing and her rifling the bathroom drawers to find the right shade of lipstick.

  “Don’t even say that. It’s Sunday morning.”

  “Oh for cripe’s sake, hell is hell no matter what day of the week it is.” I flopped on the bed and cradled the phone with my shoulder. Noire stuck her nose under my hand where it hung over the edge of the mattress, and I rubbed her ears. Wish I had someone to give me a rub.

  “You haven’t even been there twenty-four hours. Give it more time.”

  “The place reeks, the horses are mangey—”

  “There’s always—”

  “And vultures. Vultures for cripe’s sake.”

  “—whipped cream.”

  “Did you hear what I said? Vultures.”

  “Get some whipped cream. Sounds like you’ll need it.”

  “It doesn’t fix everything, you know.”

  “But it does make you feel better, right?”

  She was right, but I refused to be put off my tirade. “My boss is a prick—”

  “He sounded so nice on the phone. Are you sure?”

  “Don’t try to distract me. And by the way, you said I would not be teaching riding. Clearly that is expected. Explain.”

  She hesitated, taking a deep breath as I had, probably using the moment to swipe on her favorite lip-gloss.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “Well, so what? You aren’t going to be teaching them to ride, just testing their ability before they go on the trail, that’s all. That’s not teaching. Not the way you teach, anyway, all serious and everything like everyone has to compete at Madison Square Garden or something.”

  “What’s wrong with serious? They should take it serious. Seriously. Riding is serious.”

  “Does it have to be? All the time? Can’t you just ride…what do you call it? On the belt?”<
br />
  I almost laughed. Penny could do that, and she knew it. But I wasn’t taking her off my I-hate-your-guts list yet.

  “On the buckle,” I said.

  “Yeah, on the buckle, that’s it. Isn’t that when you relax and give your horse his head? Can’t you just loosen the reins and relax a little? A little. I’m not saying a lot.”

  I hate it when she uses horsy metaphors to make a point. Usually she gets it wrong. But this time she was dead on. I couldn’t argue that I was wound tight. What she might call heavy-handed, if she knew how to extend the metaphor. The kind of hands that make a horse toss his head, shorten his back, fight the bit. That’s how I handle myself.

  I let out a ragged breath. “I don’t know. This place is a mess.”

  “Then it won’t be hard for you to improve the situation. Look, I gotta go, Frank’s in the car. I’ll light a candle for you. Call you tomorrow.”

  ~~~

  Downstairs, I stood at one end of the concrete aisle with my knuckles firmly planted on my hips. The more I looked around, the worse it got. Cobwebs everywhere, dust, the stink, flies. I climbed a built-in ladder to the loft. Must and more dust. Right outside the barn, where the horses congregated, there was a leaky bathtub serving as a water trough. Fawn sloshed her nose in it, playing, making a puddle that the others mashed manure and pee into, turning the entire area into muck pie.

  Not only did everything need cleaning, everything, but I had to get to know the horses, too. And figure out how to feed them individually rather than family style. He wouldn’t blame me if I wanted to leave, huh? We’d see about that.

  In the tack room, I’d found a schedule. There was a ride in the morning. A list of six horse’s names had been jotted down with “Norman” written alongside. In the meantime, I had the rest of the day to get done what I could, and maybe do a bit of shopping. Whipped cream, the kind in a can that you squirt straight into your mouth, was at the very top of my shopping list. Only Pen knew I was addicted to the stuff.