A Gentle Rain (19 page)

And not in a good way, as Ben would say.

"Ready for our daily conversation?" I asked her, now. She looked at me calmly as I snapped a lead to her halter. Once out of the stall, she nibbled carrots from Joey and Lily's palms. Then I led her into the ring, tucked the end of her lead into a back pocket of my hiking shorts, clasped my hands behind my back in contemplation, and began to walk. As usual, she walked alongside me as easily as a dog on a leash. I spoke to her in Portuguese, telling her my worries about being there, my sorrows, how much I missed Mother and Dad, how torn I was by the current circumstances. If I was good therapy for the gray mare, she repaid me by listening to my woes in return.

Sometimes we would spend two hours or more just ambling in a large circle, watching my hiking boots and her front hooves kick small sprays of sand ahead of us. But not this day. I hatted. So did she.

"I hear you're not ridable," I told her. "I am led to believe that you let me sit on your back that first day simply out of shock and shared antipathy for the Pollo brothers. Ben is of the opinion that I should not attempt to sit on your back, again. Are we going to listen to such nay saying? Yay or negh? How do you like my pun?"

When she flicked her ears back and forth in answer, I eased the lead rope over her neck, tied the loose end in her halter ring, took a deep breath, grasped a large tuft of silver mane at her withers, and swung aboard. She wasn't quite fifteen hands tall, meaning the top of my head crested her withers by two inches, so I managed the feat easily enough. She flinched as I settled on her back, but didn't panic.

I exhaled slowly and grasped the looped lead in my hands, palms down. Western-style riding-that is, one might say, cowboy style-relies on one rein hand, freeing the other for tossing a rope at a cow. Eastern style-as seen in jumping competitions, the Olympics, and other events-uses two hands on the reins. I squeezed my legs to the gray mare's sides. "Caminhada, por favor." Walk, please.

She walked.

"Everybody keep quiet," I heard Miriam whisper. "We're witnessin' a miracle."

When I glanced over, she, Lily and Joey were frozen at the wooden fence, watching me in astonishment. Lily put a hand to her heart. I gazed forward again, pulled my impromptu reins a little tighter, and was impressed when the gray mare responded by tucking her nose slightly.

I walked her in circles, first to the right, then to the left, making figure eights, squeezing and releasing with my legs, making the smallest moves with my hands. She flexed her head, collected herself like a dancer moving with controlled grace, and, in short, amazed me. Considering that she was being guided only by a lead rope and halter, her performance couldn't have been better.

"I'm putting her through some very simple dressage exercises," I announced in a low, soothing voice, so as not to spook her.

"What's dressage?" Lily whispered loudly.

I thought for a moment, trying to distill centuries of intricate horse-and-rider communication. Finally I gave up and said. "It's horse dancing."

"Oh!"

"Like them Lipizzaners, Lily," Miriam pointed out. "You know, the white horses we watch on TV. They dance and hop. And the riders wear funny hats."

"Oh, my! Karen, can the gray mare do what they do?"

"Well, most healthy and reasonably strong horses can perform advanced dressage techniques, but it takes years of training, and only a few reach the level of the Lipizzanners."

"She's walking real good," Joey called. "I bet Zipperlanners can't wall,, as good as her."

Zipperlanners. I smiled. "We have a new breed, here. Miss Mare, I dub thee a Zipperlanner."

The gray mare swiveled her ears. I grew bolder, gave her a nudge, and she escalated into a long, easy trot. Ben said she wasn't gaited, the way many Cracker horses are, but she did have a lovely, long trot. Again I guided her in large figure-eights. Another nudge of my heels and she went smoothly into a canter. Gorgeous. We circled. I nudged.

She switched strides like a champion. Horses naturally lead with one front leg. For the sake of coordination and grace, the extended leg should always be on the inside when making a circle. A trained horse is ambidextrous and can switch in the blink of an eye, on command. The gray mare responded perfectly. I was entranced, enchanted, and fully caught up in the Zen of cantering.

Until she threw me against the rail.

Actually, what happened was not her fault. She saw Ben, who had walked into the barn and leaned against the fence, removing his hat as if in church, watching the stunning spectacle of the gray mare. His movement startled her, his presence enraged her. She flung up her head, lunged at him, and snared his hat with her teeth.

And I, caught unawares in my trance, slid off in a neat arc. The ring's middle board stopped my momentum. I hit it on my left shoulder, bounced off, and landed, sitting upright, in the sand. The gray mare, white-eyed, galloped to the ring's far side, where she dropped Ben's hat. Then she stepped on it, in apparent hatred of straw cowboy hats everywhere.

"Karen? Iren." Ben's hands cupped my face. My next clear thought surfaced as he squatted on his boot heels in front of me, holding my head, looking into my dazed eyes. "Godawmighty, I'm sorry."

"I should have been more alert."

"Naw. You were doing just fine. Beautiful. Count my fingers." He held up several.

I took a deep breath. My head cleared. "Forefinger, middle finger, and a dusty thumb. You could use a manicure."

"Good girl. What hurts?"

"Nothing at the moment. I'm numb."

"She's okay," he called.

I was dimly aware of Lily huddling beside me, stroking my hair, and Miriam soothing Joey, who was wheezing loudly. "I'm fine, I really am," I lied. I looked into Ben's eyes. "The mare is ridable."

"Well, not exactly. But maybe she will be, some day."

"Ye of little faith."

"Ye of scrambled brains. I'm gonna drive you over to the emergency clinic in Fountain Springs."

"No."

ep.

"No." I turned toward Lily. She was crying. Her hand felt soft on my hair. "Lily, I'm not hurt."

"Poor baby."

"Lily, I'm ... don't cry. You don't know how resilient I am. Don't-" I stopped myself. My common sense returned with another deep breath. I looked at Ben. "Help me up, and I'll retrieve your hat."

"Hat's a lost cause. It don't matter. I can get another hat. I'm not worried about the hat. I'm worried about . . ." He stopped himself. Common sense was a virus. I spread it to him. "Awright. Up you go." He stood, lifting me to my feet. Lily rose along with me, tugging at my arm as if she could bolster me. My mother, I thought. My real mother.

I got my balance. Biological mother, I corrected. I brushed myself off, waved at Joey and Miriam, then took Lily's hand and patted it. "I'll get Ben's hat."

"Be careful!"

"You've had enough business with that mare for the day," Ben said.

"Leave Karen to go," Miriam said. "She ain't no quitter."

I looked up at him. "I ain't no quitter."

He sighed and stepped aside. I walked toward the gray mare. She looked at me, her scarred head high and watchful. She snorted over my hair, at Ben. I spoke to her in Portuguese. Her head lowered, her eyes calmed, and she waited. I reached out carefully-she was extremely headshy, even around me-and put my hand on the looped lead rope. "Back up," I commanded gently. She backed away from Ben's hat. I slowly bent and retrieved it.

Her eyes rolled but she didn't spook. I held out the trampled straw hat. She sniffed it. "He means you no harm," I told her in a whisper. "I know some man abused your trust and left you with that awful scar, but Ben Thocco is entirely trustworthy. I realize I haven't known him very long, but I believe my instinct and observations are sound. Can't you see that there isn't a mistreated horse anywhere on this ranch? Don't you notice how Cougar nuzzles him so sweetly?" I put the hat to my nose and inhaled. "He smells good, doesn't he? Sweaty and masculine and clean. Look how much I trust him. Watch this." I slowly lifted Ben's hat and placed it on my head.

The mare drew back, blowing. But as I stood there, she sniffed the hat again, lipped it, then relaxed. I eased alongside her and whispered, "You and I need to show everyone we're not a ... a one-trick pony. Agreed?" I grasped her mane and swung up on her back.

Thank goodness, she only jumped a little.

And I didn't fall off

I nudged her, she walked, and we made a slow, triumphant journey to the fence. I slid off My legs shook. I led her to her stall, removed the lead, and closed the door behind her. She turned around gracefully, hung her head over the door, and looked at me. "Well done," I told her.

I turned, wobbling a little, and Ben was there. He took me by the elbow. "Well done, there," he agreed gruffly.

I looked up at him from under the brim of his hat. It was too large for me and sank so low I could barely see out. He thumbed the brim up. "You wear it well."

"Thank you."

"For what? Being the reason you got thrownl?"

"Giving me a chance to prove myself."

"You got nothing to prove to me."

"I'm not the person you think I am. I've had things far too easy."

He frowned when I said that, and the magic moment faded. Lily, Miriam and Joey arrived beside us. Lily clasped both hands to her heart. "No one will ever call our mare Dog Food again."

I nodded. "She needs a name. Have you got any ideas?"

Lily shook her head.

"You name her," Ben said quietly. "You've earned the right. You understand her."

Joey nodded. Miriam, too. "She listens to you," Miriam said. "Anybody else names her, why, she'll just bite a hunk out of `em. Maybe you ought to name her `Killer."'

I looked at Ben. "You could suggest a Seminole name. Something that honors her native personality."

He arched a brow "What? `She Who Bites Hats?"'

I turned and looked at the gray mare. "She needs a name she can live up to. Something inspirational. Something that speaks to her inner self."

"Jaws," Miriam grunted.

"Something pretty," Lily urged.

The gray mare studied me, her eyes dark and hopeful. The terrible scar stood out, obscuring what had once been a lovely equine face. She was damaged, but she was a survivor. She belonged to my birth mother and birth father; they had rescued her, with Ben's help. They believed in her. She was special.

"Her scar is no longer a scar," I said. "It's a star." I reached out carefully. She drew back a little but let me rest the tip of my finger on the raised flesh. "I christen thee, Estrela. `Star,' in Portuguese. Estrela."

"Estrela," Lily whispered. "Now, she's beautiful."

Estrela blew warm, soft air on my hand.

Even Ben smiled.

Ben

What I saw that day in the ring was a born horsewoman. Karen was small enough to fit the mare, agile, and filled with the kind of language horses understand. On the sly, observing from around barn corners and going by reports from Miriam and the rest, I'd catalogued her talking at least six different tongues to the mare. Portuguese, yeah, that one mostly, but then, too, Spanish, French, German, something from Scandinavia, and the occasional chung-po-pau of one or more Asian lingoes. Shoulda named the mare Babel.

But whatever Karen said to Estrela was fine by me. Thanks to Karen, a hundred dollars of dog food had been transformed into a ridable member of the Thocco Ranch Cracker herd.

Also thanks to Karen, Mac and Lily had a pretend-daughter. That's how they treated her. Like she was theirs.

"She's what we need around here," Miriam kept saying with her drawn-on eyebrows raised. "She's an able-minded can-do gal. When Rhubarb farts, she doesn't even blink."

Because of Karen, Joey's heart condition had stabilized. She and Mr. Darcy gave him plenty of entertainment to look forward to every day. You can't tell me waking up eager doesn't make a heart better. Karen had the same effect on me. My heart and other regions, too. Not being coy, here, just gallant.

This isn't the sweetest comparison but it's all I've got: Watching a sexy woman ride a horse is like watching a stripper dance. It's the rhythm, it's the rockil' motion, it's the soft-thighed, muscular power. It hypnotizes men so they just stand there, like I did, hat in hand. What Karen did later with my hat-putting it to her face, inhaling my scent, then setting my hat on her head-would live in my mind like a pulsing red light and a gyrating pelvis from then on.

Look. This is just how men see things.

I mean it in a good way.

When I tucked Joey in that night, before going to sit in the recliner near his bed, he draped one arm around Rhubarb and Grub, who were snuggled alongside him. Then he looked up at me with a little frown and said, "Don't you want a girlfriend?"

Trick question. This was one of the reasons I'd always limited my love life to Saturday nights at the lake cabin. I didn't want to make him feel bad. Joey might not be "normal," but he was a ball-bearing grown man, like any other man in the basic ways. I knew he wanted a girlfriend. I knew he fantasized about having sex. We'd talked about it a lot over the years. I'd taken him to events for Down Syndrome people, trying to matchmake, but his romances never got beyond hand-holding and kisses.