Show Barn Blues Read online

“A Highland cow?” I blinked.

  “The shaggy ones they have in Scotland.”

  “Oh.” There was an awful lot of hair on the floor. I wondered if he was developing Cushing’s disease. Old horses seemed to get metabolic disorders much easier these days.

  “I think he needs testin’ for that Cushin’s,” Margaret went on, echoing my thoughts. “Either way, he sure does think it’s gonna be a cold winter.”

  “Let’s hope not. Cushing’s or winter, either one. Where’s Tom?”

  “Rotating the hay bales, throwing out the moldy ones.”

  “Have you seen Anna?”

  “She’s out riding,” Margaret said dismissively, and switched the clippers back on. Their roar drowned out any further conversation we might have had — she was done with me. I waved, was ignored, and went out to the covered arena.

  Anna was cantering up to a big vertical — bigger than she really had any business jumping. I stopped in the entry and waited for her to realize her mistake and turn away, but about six strides out, Mason zeroed in on the jump and there was no turning back. He picked his big head up, his strides grew tight and bouncy, and Anna, to her credit, rode him beautifully right up to the base of the jump. He took off, in what would have been a beautiful bascule — if the fence was a foot lower. I winced, waiting for the rattle of the pole in its cups. Mason just didn’t have enough jump. Plenty of heart, plenty of love for Anna, but not enough jump.

  His tight knees, tucked up to his chin, rapped the top pole hard, and when he landed and cantered away, he was obviously off, head-bobbing lame.

  Anna pulled up as quickly as she could and hopped off. I ran across the arena to her, but I could hear her sniffling by the time I reached them. She had her hands on Mason’s right foreleg, feeling for the injury.

  “It’ll be a sore knee,” I told her. “Probably nothing more.”

  Anna looked up at me, a single tear tracking down her tanned face. She looked very, very young. Well, she was only eighteen, I reminded myself. She ought to be in college, not mucking stalls and grooming boarders’ horses for me. “I thought he could do it,” she said bleakly. “I always thought he could do anything.”

  “Well,” I paused, to stop myself from being callous and saying Well, guess he can’t. My first impulses were rarely good ones, especially when I was dealing with emotional people. I started again with a more gentle tone of voice. “Well, Mason is a very talented horse, Anna. And you have a great partnership. But he can’t go as far as you can. I think you’ve found his limit.”

  I gave Mason a pat on the neck, thinking, thanks for breaking the news to her for me, old boy. I owed him one. Hopefully he hadn’t cracked his knee too badly on that jump pole.

  Anna stood up on wobbly legs. “What should I do now?”

  She knew exactly what to do, but she was second-guessing herself after making such a mistake with Mason’s jumping. I took pity on her. “Take him in slowly and cold-hose that knee for half an hour. Then we’ll take a look at how he moves on it, see if we think the vet oughta take a look.”

  Anna nodded slowly, eyes slightly panicked. She didn’t have the money for a vet call. “I’ll take care of it,” I said reassuringly, thinking sadly of my soon-to-be-depleted bank account. Anna worked for me for room and board, and for her horse’s room and board. I couldn’t expect her to pay a vet bill when she earned exactly nothing, even if I was throwing everything I had at ponies and trail horses.

  “Thanks,” Anna said, her voice still gravelly with tears. She pulled the reins over Mason’s head and started leading the little horse away. He limped after her with his usual puppy-dog devotion. I watched them from the center of the arena, until the sway of his hindquarters disappeared into the barn, newly amazed and a little envious at their close relationship. I wondered if Anna would be half the rider she was now if she was riding “just” a horse, instead of one who was clearly a heart-horse.

  Well, I had learned to do it. If she wanted to be a trainer, she’d have to learn it, too. “There are only so many soulmates out there,” I muttered, kicking at a hoof print in the clay, and then I adjusted the jumps to a more appropriate height. I’d have to tack up Bailey myself, I supposed. Anna would be obsessing over Mason for the rest of the afternoon.

  I knocked the fences down to about three foot six, wiggled some standards to make some difficult distances, and stepped back to survey the results. I’d made two tight little combinations that could be jumped in a figure-eight pattern. It would be nice for reminding Bailey to start paying more attention to where his feet were and less attention to the big scary world outside the arena, where he had been focused a lot lately. I had a suspicion he was still worried about the trails. Every time he looked towards the woods, he was remembering his bad experiences.

  Ivor had been a pain ever since we’d been out in the woods, too. The trail riding episode was a gift that kept on giving, it seemed.

  But I wasn’t sure why.

  “Odd,” I muttered to myself. “Very odd. Bailey’s scared, because he’s only had a bad time out there. But Ivor −- he had fun. What if that brat is ring-sour now?”

  What if I was ring-sour? The feeling of exhaustion at the thought of upcoming shows, the boredom of endless teaching, the never-ending circles under the roof of the arena… when I thought of what I’d really like to be doing on a cool fall afternoon, I couldn’t help but conjure up an image of the vast Florida sky stretching out over the lonesome pines, the sound of the wind rattling in the palmettos, the ghostly white apparitions as a flock of ibis high in a cypress tree.

  I had the bug, dammit.

  Across, the parking lot, a bale of hay came flying out of the hay-shed and joined a small pile of its brethren. I saw Tom up in the heights of the stack, pulling the bales from the back towards the front. The moldy ones would go in the Gator and get dumped in the compost pile. He was too busy to tack up Bailey for me, too. Looked like I was going to groom for myself today.

  Just as well, I thought, trudging back into the barn. I needed to keep myself busy, or I’d spend all my time daydreaming about wandering in the woods, both myself and my horse footloose and fancy-free.

  Slacking off and ignoring work… that was no way to bring home the bacon.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I don’t understand.” Colleen crossed her arms across her chest. “You had me on the schedule, didn’t you?”

  It was all I could do to avoid shrugging like a sheepish teenager. Beneath me, Bailey panted and heaved. He was dripping with sweat, which was an accomplishment considering the temperature was only in the mid-sixties, with a chilly wind sweeping through the arena from time to time. Still, it had been a really rough hour for Bailey and for me, although I doubted Colleen would have any sympathy for me. Standing there in her Pikeur full-seats and the “old” Ariat semi-custom boots she was so eager to shed for a pair of hand-made, custom Dehners, her face like a thundercloud, I was forced to appreciate once again how many of my boarders were made of formidable stuff after several decades in the corporate world. It couldn’t be denied, I bullied all of them from time to time, but the ladies with true confidence, used to standing up in front of men in black suits and telling them what to do, sometimes managed to shake my composure.

  Still, this wasn’t my fault. Things with horses do not always go as previously scheduled. “Of course I had you on the schedule, Colleen,” I said in a measured tone. “But I also had a half-hour training ride on Bailey on the schedule. And had he been a halfway tractable horse today, that would have been a nice warm-up for you. Unfortunately…”

  Unfortunately, I did not say, we’d had some issues. Some rearing/bucking/bolting/refusing fences issues, to be exact, plus some pretty serious spooking issues. Bailey noticed Tom’s amazing flying hay bales, even though the crime was taking place at least three hundred feet away, almost as soon as we’d gotten into the arena. Whether it was because the hay bales were flying out near the trail-head, or just because he didn’t want t
o be in the vicinity of flying hay bales, no matter where they were, was a moot point at the moment. What mattered was the end result: a horse that came unglued, and began spooking at everything, constantly, using every excuse in the book to shy sideways, bolt forwards, stop dead, run backwards, and fling himself up in the air either head or ass-first, whichever seemed more appropriate in the moment. It had been one of the worst hours in the saddle I’d spent in years.

  I didn’t say all that, though. “Unfortunately, Bailey is just having a really hard time settling down today. Maybe he was just having a bad day. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t be comfortable putting you up on him with this sort of behavior.”

  Usually, that was enough. Usually, I was The Trainer, and my word was law.

  But Colleen was definitely feeling her oats today. This PTA thing was obviously going to her head. “That’s just not acceptable,” she snapped. “This is my horse, and I have the right to ride him anytime I want. I will not be told I can’t ride him. What kind of racket is this? Do you think you can just charge me to train him, as you put it, and then tell me I have to just keep on paying you because he’s having a bad day?”

  “That’s not what I meant at all,” I said urgently. Bailey threw up his head and backed up a few steps. I gave him a dig with my spurs to put him back where I had told him to stand and he kicked out with one hind leg. Jesus, what a bastard. “I just think we have to evaluate his behavior and make a decision about whether or not you should ride him, since this is your first ride in a few weeks. I’d hate for you to strain that wrist again.” Or get dumped and break your neck.

  “I came to ride him today. I don’t want this to become some sort of regular thing, where I can’t ride my own horse. I’m very busy, and we have shows coming up,” she went on, as if I didn’t write the show calendar, and fill in the entries, and perhaps had not heard about her busy schedule.

  “What’s going on?” Gayle came out of the barn, leading Maxine by her reins. Maxine alone seemed more chastened after her trail experience, as if she was thrilled to be home and wanted nothing more than to never leave the confines of the stable again. I wondered what would happen if we tried to take her out to the parking lot, though. There was a show in another week…

  “Oh, nothing, just Grace messing around telling me I’m not capable of riding my own horse!” Colleen sniffed.

  Gayle’s eyes widened and she looked at me for confirmation.

  “Bailey is being a tough customer today,” I explained. “I just want to make sure we’re all erring on the side of safety.”

  Gayle nodded, as if that sounded reasonable to her. “Colleen, maybe she’s just making sure you don’t get hurt,” she said. Sweet Gayle, the peacemaker. Good girl, Gayle. “I mean, it’s not like Grace ever steers us wrong.”

  Gayle’s Christmas present just got very large and extravagant.

  Colleen dropped her arms from her chest to her hips, which I considered progress. Bailey tugged at the reins, digging his head against the bit, and I let him walk in a big circle. He swished his tail as he walked, a sure sign of irritation since it was too windy for flies. “Behave yourself, son,” I advised him in a coaxing voice, and he actually stomped a fore-hoof as he walked. I considered calling the vet.

  He wasn’t sick or lame, though. He felt perfectly smooth and even. This problem was all mental.

  “This can’t become a regular thing,” Colleen repeated coldly as we circled past her again. “I refuse to own a horse that I cannot ride.”

  What Colleen didn’t realize was that she’d always owned a horse she couldn’t ride — without regular schooling sessions from me. “Of course not,” I told her reassuringly. “This is a special case. It happens, horses have bad days, something is bothering him. I’m going to cool him out and then we can start again tomorrow to see if it keeps up, or if he feels better.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “I’ll have the vet out to rule out any lamenesses, anything sore that might be bothering him. He might need the chiropractor — it’s been a while. I don’t feel anything in his gait to indicate that his legs or feet hurt — you see anything?”

  Colleen watched him alertly, as if she was some sort of lameness expert. I sat still in the saddle and let her think so. “I don’t see anything,” she confirmed after a few minutes. “He looks fine.”

  “Maybe it’s just something in the air tonight,” I suggested. “They do get silly the first time it turns cold. It’s going to be in the forties tonight.”

  “I’ll get out his Baker blanket,” she said. “He’ll need that, right?”

  I nodded, relieved she had decided to be helpful instead of argumentative. “That would be great. Thanks, Colleen.”

  Colleen disappeared into the barn, her boot heels ringing on the concrete. Gayle led Maxine to the mounting block and laboriously climbed aboard the mare. Maxine stood still, neck arched, waited patiently and moved off obediently once Gayle had picked up her stirrups and gave her a nudge. What a good mare, I thought. She was worth every penny, and she’d been quite a lot of pennies. Gayle’s husband had nearly had a conniption when we doubled down on him at a barn picnic to convince him Maxine was the perfect horse for her. But he’d given in. Gayle had it pretty good, and she seemed to know it. Except for the moments of self-doubt after the dressage show a few weeks ago, and of course the disastrous trail experience afterwards, she was an easy-going, cheerful student to have around the barn.

  I needed more people like Gayle, I reflected. I wondered how you could target advertising for that sort of person. Wanted: low-maintenance, biddable, good-natured student with disposable income and spare time.

  “Looks like you already have a class-A horse show mom on your hands.”

  I turned around. Kennedy came into the arena, a folder under one arm. I frowned at her. “Shouldn’t you be leaving now?”

  “I am, I am. But I wanted to run a few prospects by you, and I was lucky enough to see that scene. Welcome to the pony world. She’s your first horse show mom, and she’s about as bad as they come.”

  “We haven’t even started taking her kid to horse shows yet.”

  “Then she might be the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  I sighed. Pony business. What was I thinking? “We should have just gotten a dozen trail horses and gone full-on dude ranch. They come, they do what we say, they leave, they never come back. No coddling required.”

  “Too late now,” Kennedy said cheerfully. “Because look at this dispersal sale happening out in Geneva.”

  “Switzerland?” I’d gotten a horse or two from a Swiss bloodstock agent. They’d cost a royal fortune. “Bit expensive for ponies, I think.”

  “Geneva Florida,” Kennedy corrected me. I pulled up Bailey, who was starting to realize how incredibly tired he was and complied happily, and accepted the folder from her. Print-outs spilled into my hand, of ponies with apple-round hindquarters and beguiling dished noses. Gray, bay, chestnut with plenty of chrome — all the right angles and looks for a show pony.

  I looked at the farm name. “Kinsale? Never heard of them.” The Welsh ponies preferred for the A-circuit typically came stamped with recognizable and trendy breeder names, like the Swansdown pony at Dennis Lowery’s, or my old Sailor’s breeder, Maplewood.

  “No, but look at the breeding on them. Basically, they bought a bunch of nice mares, bred them to really nice stallions, and got a ton of nice babies — but don’t have the money to stick with the business long enough to get the babies finished.” Kennedy pointed to a few of the bloodlines listed — she was right. There were plenty of championship bloodlines on these no-name ponies.

  “And it’s a dispersal, huh? Is there an auction or is it first-come first-serve?”

  “First-come,” Kennedy said. “What do you think?”

  I shrugged. What the hell. “Look at Dennis’s pony first,” I said. “Tell him you love it but you have to check with me. Then tomorrow get out to Geneva, or wherever, and see what’s out t
here. If there’s something we can work with, go for it. Don’t tell Dennis or he’ll drag-race you there — that man loves a bargain.”

  Kennedy frowned. “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “Call in sick,” I said. “You’re working for me now. Those people are just paying out your sick time now. Use it.”

  She grinned. “Okay.”

  I hopped off Bailey and pulled the reins over his ears. He shook his head at me and pawed the earth. I sighed. “This horse needs something. What, I don’t know. A stiff drink, maybe.”

  “He was bad?”

  “What gave it away?”

  Kennedy surveyed the sweat dripping from his poll, neck, flanks, beneath the saddle pad. “Oh, nothing.”

  “He was really bad. He’s been getting worse and worse. Spooking at everything.”

  “You know —” Kennedy stopped herself.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s only…”

  “Yeah, yeah, Miss Trainer, tell me!” I ran up the stirrups and loosened the girth. Kennedy was still silent. “I’m waiting!”

  “He needs a change of scenery,” Kennedy said reluctantly. “A little bit of fun.”

  I shook my head. “You’re a broken record, honey.” I took Bailey and started walking into the barn, shouting for Anna to come and catch him. Kennedy smiled weakly and waved, heading for her car and her journey out into the hinterlands to look at Dennis Lowery’s magical white pony.

  Anna appeared and took Bailey’s reins, and I watched her walk him into the cross-ties and start stripping my tack. I had a little time to kill, since this was supposed to be Colleen’s riding lesson, but I had already lost money since I was going to have to leave this training session off her bill, so I decided to give up the rest of the hour and leaned against the concrete block wall, watching the horse. He eyed everything around him as if it was a potential threat, keeping his eyeball tight on a frog making its leisurely way along the drains in front of the wash-stalls. When it hopped in front of him, he took a quick step back, as if he had never seen a frog before.