Another Kind of Cowboy (5 page)

I walked into the office, and the secretary pointed
me toward the office of Ms. Green, the headmistress.

Ms. Green's face was a mottled, reddish color and her forehead was furrowed as though she was busy trying to work out very complicated math. I recognized the look. It meant she'd been talking to my mother. At least my mother was still alive.

“Here's Cleo now,” said Ms. Green, and quickly handed me the phone.

“Hello?”

“Honey! Good news!”

I flicked a glance at Ms. Green.

“Uh, hi, Mom. Why are you calling me here? This is the principal's office.”

“I'm in Africa, darling,” she said, as though that explained everything. “I just wanted to let you know that we've found you a new instructor. Instructors, actually. I've arranged everything with Ms. Green. Your horse will be moved to the new barn and until we get you a car, a staff member from the school will drive you to and fro. A
female
staff member. A Mrs. Dirt, I believe.”

“You mean Mrs. Mudd. How did—?”

“We were
incredibly
lucky to get Fergus and Ivan. It took considerable coaxing from my contacts to get them to take you on.”

“Who—?”

“They were trainers in
Europe
,” she said, her voice going all breathy. “I got their names from Princess Fontania. She's
European royalty
. Minor royalty, but still. She's fabulously wealthy and marvelously eccentric. She lives here in the hotel with the man who used to be her footman. It would be absolutely scandalous if the two of them weren't at least eighty-five years old. She used to ride dressage and she swears Fergus and Ivan are the best. Can you believe that they retired to Vancouver Island recently, not far at all from your school? Okay, darling, must fly. One of the caterers just made eye contact with our lead actress and she won't come out of her trailer.”

The phone went dead and I handed the receiver to Ms. Green, who raised one eyebrow as she hung it up.

 

My new coaches didn't seem very thrilled to meet me, or Phillipa, whom I brought along for moral support.

When we got out of the Stoneleigh truck, the tall, elegant one, who had a thick head of white hair, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “One, we only agreed to take one. This is two.” He spoke to the shorter, bald man beside him as though Phil and I
weren't standing right in front of them.

Mrs. Mudd, the school driver, smirked.

“I just drive 'em,” she said.

The short bald one, who had clear blue eyes that crinkled at the corners, held out his hand to Phillipa. “Hello, love,” he said.

Phillipa blushed madly. “Oh, no. She's Cleo,” she giggled. “I'm just her friend.”

“There is nothing more important than a friend, my dear. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Phil's face was so red it looked like her head was going to explode. She stared, awestruck, at her hand as though it had turned to gold.

Then the short man turned to me. “And hello to you, my dear. We've heard so much about you.”

That made it my turn to blush. He was very courtly. I could totally picture him knowing a princess.

“I'm Fergus and this is Ivan,” the short man continued, nodding toward the tall one, who stood behind him. “We understand you're interested in joining us for dressage lessons.”

The tall one sniffed rudely. He wore a white blouse with poufy sleeves and tall, shiny brown boots over breeches. He looked like an old, bitchy pirate. Minus the earring.

“You want me to unload the horse now?” asked Mrs. Mudd.

Fergus, who was working the English country-gentleman look of brown cords and soft green quilted vest over a cabled Irish knit sweater, blinked quickly. “You mean you've brought the horse here? We haven't even discussed Cleo's needs.”

“I'm not pulling that horse trailer around for my health,” said Mrs. Mudd. “Anyway, I don't care about the details. I just drive these little girls and their ponies where I'm told. And I was told that this particular girl was moving her horse here. And good riddance, too, because that mare is a pain in the ass to load, if you catch my drift.”

The tall, white-haired, blouse-wearing man leveled an offended glare at Mrs. Mudd, who didn't seem disturbed by it.

“Well,” said Fergus, looking from Phil to me. “Isn't this fun?”

Mrs. Mudd didn't waste any more time with idle chitchat. She stalked around to the back of the six-horse trailer and unloaded Tandava, who came out at her usual backward gallop. Mrs. Mudd handed me the lead rope. As soon as I took it, she climbed into the truck to read her novel.

Tandy turned around and around in anxious circles as I tried to hang on to her. “This is Tandava,” I said.

“She's Cleo's horse,” added Phil.

“You don't say,” said Fergus.

Ivan just stared. Finally, he pointed. At me or at Tandy. I couldn't tell which, so I just stood there while she stepped all over herself as she snorted and looked wildly around.

“Phillipa, be a love and help Cleo take off the mare's rug and shipping boots,” said Fergus.

Cautiously, Phil and I got Tandy's gear off.

Ivan stared at her some more, his face working with disapproval. Then he tossed his head and waved his hand. If we'd been on board a pirate ship I'd have thought he was giving the signal to push somebody overboard. Luckily Fergus was there to interpret.

“Sweetheart, Ivan would like you to walk her out so he can see her move.”

I walked Tandava past them.

“Trot,” instructed Fergus. I quickened my pace until Tandy broke into a trot.

I went as far down the driveway as I could and then slowed her to a walk and led her back.

“My goodness, you have a very nice horse there,” said Fergus.

“What a terrible, terrible waste,” said Ivan, before he turned on his heel and stalked off toward the house.

We enjoyed another awkward silence until Fergus clapped his hands and rubbed them briskly together. “Not to worry, dear girls. He'll come around. Let's get this beautiful lady settled, shall we?”

 

Limestone, Ivan and Fergus's farm, is on the edge of a lake. I don't think it's a swimming lake or anything. It's more like the kind of lake that swans and ducks hang out in. A dark forest borders one side of the property and on the other side green fields roll all the way down to the lake. Fergus and Ivan's house is nestled at the base of the hill. The house suits the setting perfectly, with windows on all sides. The stables and indoor arena and outdoor ring are just as attractive as the house. I was actually a little surprised at how nice the whole place was. You have to hand it to my mom. Even from Africa she can locate a money situation.

“This is awesome,” I said to Fergus.

“Hmmm, yes,” he said. “Slightly underused but awesome, as you so charmingly put it.”

We put Tandava in a small paddock near the barn to let her calm down and have a look at her new
surroundings, and then Fergus gave us a tour. I could see what he meant by underused. There was an eight-stall barn, an indoor arena, a regulation-size outdoor dressage ring, and fully fenced fields as far as I could see. And hardly any horses.

Fergus led us toward one of them, an older horse with a swayback and a big belly. “This is Honoré. She's a retired broodmare.”

Phillipa put out her hand, and Honoré gently sniffed at it.

“She's sweet,” said Phil as Honoré snuffled at her hair.

“Honoré is trained to Grand Prix. She's produced five foals, four of which have earned top honors at European sport horse competitions. This gentle lady has earned her retirement,” said Fergus.

He led us to the next pasture, where a big bay horse grazed at a distance. Fergus didn't say anything; he just stood there and all of a sudden the horse lifted its head, sniffed, then came tearing toward us at a full gallop. It slid to a halt, and poked its head over the fence. Fergus reached out and gave it a scratch.

“This is Ranier. He's an Oldenburg stallion.”

I saw Phillipa's eyes widen as she took in the
horse's height and his massive chest.

“He's huge,” she said.

“Ah yes, that he is. He's a lovely horse. Very talented. Ranier was Ivan's last competition horse. He is also trained to Grand Prix, but like his owners and stablemates, he's retired.”

Fergus turned and walked down to the field nearest the lake. A white horse was waiting for us when we arrived at the fence.

“And this is Princess. She's an Andalusian/Dutch Warmblood cross.”

“Is she trained all the way, too?” Phil asked.

“Nearly,” he said. “She has some work to do on her reading comprehension, but other than that she's quite accomplished.”

Princess, with her big, soft, black curious eyes, did look just about smart enough to read.

“Are you saying you have
three
Grand Prix–level horses here?” Phil said.

“Two
retired
Grand Prix horses. Princess is a retired Prix St. Georges schoolmaster.”

“I thought there were only five horses trained to Grand Prix on the whole island,” said Phil.

“You've got this huge place for three retired horses?” I said. “Why?”

“Perhaps you think we should move our retired horses into a nice condominium? We've only recently moved here. Who knows what will come our way? Perhaps there will be more surprises like you two.”

Phillipa shook her head. “It's just Cleo. I have to leave my horse at school.”

“That's a shame, dear. But think of it this way—eventually Ivan will get over his pique and give Cleo a lesson. Then she'll be sorry she's not still at school with you.”

I looked at Phil. That's exactly what I was afraid of.

SEPTEMBER 9

ALEX TOLD HIS
trainer on the way to the tack store. Afterward he felt naked.

“Come again?” Meredith asked.

“Dressage. I'm thinking of switching to dressage.”

“Is this some twisted way of punishing me for going to Texas?”

“No, that's not it. I'm just interested, I guess. I've always been sort of interested.”

“And you're just telling me now? We could have done more English. You could have shown hunter under saddle. I just didn't think you were interested.” Meredith cast him a sideways glance. “You know, if you switch to dressage your dad's going to freak.”

“It has nothing to do with him,” Alex said, even
though he knew she was right. But if he was ever going to switch, now was the time. In a few days Meredith was leaving the local barn she managed to take over a big quarter-horse breeding and training operation in Texas.

“Well, they say dressage is the basis for everything,” Meredith said, as she pulled the truck into the parking lot. “Maybe I can explain that to your dad. Tell him even the real old-time cowboys use dressage techniques.”

Alex stared gratefully after his trainer as he followed her into the tack store.

Lately she'd been asking after his friends at school and he knew she was probably trying to establish that he had some. School, for Alex, was just the place he went between rides. He had exactly two acquaintances there. Chris was a quiet, blond boy who carried a black sketchpad everywhere. He wore sweater vests and old cardigans and had to be asked to remove his headphones if you wanted to say anything to him. Sofia was a round-faced Chinese Canadian girl who hid her sardonic sense of humor behind long silences and her lush good looks behind unfashionable eyeglasses and shapeless T-shirts with dorky logos. The three of them hung around together
but they didn't talk much.

When Meredith asked about his friends, Alex told her about how he and Chris and Sofia went out to eat and to movies on the weekends. His stories were total fabrications, but he could tell she liked hearing them. Sometimes lying was the best thing you could do for someone you cared about.

Kind of like how people seemed to appreciate hearing that he had a girlfriend. The girlfriend was a lie, too, but over time she'd become nearly real to him. He used her when other guys were making jokes about sex and girls and he felt like he had to say
something
. He'd never come out and told Chris and Sofia about his imaginary girlfriend directly, but he'd dropped a few big hints, alluding to a “certain someone” he'd met at a horse show out of town and whom he was “pretty into.” It probably wasn't necessary since neither of them ever said anything about their own romances. Sofia didn't seem to want anyone to notice that she was a girl, and Chris seemed worried that someone would ask him to turn down his music and have an actual conversation.
The three of us are very strange,
thought Alex, with a certain degree of satisfaction.

“So I guess we should be finding you some dressage gear,” said Meredith as she perused the shelves
full of supplements and ointments. “I mean, since you're making the big switch.”

Alex nodded, even though he had already collected much of what he'd need to begin his dressage training. While some boys hoarded pornography, Alex had a stash of dressage paraphernalia that he'd collected over the years hidden in his sock drawer. Included were the video of the dressage competition in the last Olympics, a pair of tan breeches, and some English riding boots that he'd purchased for half price on a trip out of town, as well as a copy of
The Complete Training of Horse and Rider in the Principles of Classical Horsemanship
by Alois Podhajsky. Today he hadn't planned on buying anything except a new pair of gloves.

“Well, if you're going to start riding dressage you're going to need a lot more than just new gloves.” Meredith reached down for a long dressage whip and handed it to Alex. “You're definitely going to need this. Your poor old Turnip's going to have to pick it up a few notches.”

Alex inspected the whip and was suddenly gripped by an intense desire to have it. He became aware of another customer, a short bald man with clear blue eyes, who seemed to be smiling to himself.

“Oh, come on. Just buy the damn thing,” said Meredith. “It's on sale and it's already the cheapest one in the store. That and your gloves and you're on your way to a major shopping binge. When that's done, you can start saving for dressage lessons. From what I hear, those don't come cheap.”

Alex groaned.

He loved the feel of the dressage whip in his hands. He felt like brandishing it around the store, like fencing with it or dancing with it. Alex was reminded of the freedom he used to feel passaging around the living room on his imaginary dressage horse. Between the gloves and the whip and the confession, he was as happy as he'd been in weeks as he walked up to the register.

Moments later his elation was gone as the clerk informed him that his family account was overdue. Badly overdue. Face burning, Alex stared at the counter. It was crowded with horse treats and horse-themed jewelry. He was uncomfortably aware that the bald man he'd seen earlier was behind him in line. In the close confines of the tack shop the man would be able to hear every word the clerk spoke.

“I'm sorry,” the clerk said. “Just ask your father to come in and bring your account up to date. We can
hold these things for you.”

Alex couldn't seem to move, so Meredith gently took his arm and pulled him out of the store.

The two of them got into Meredith's old diesel truck with the
STARFLEET ACADEMY
and
I
QUARTER HORSES
bumper stickers in the rear window. They sat in silence for a moment.

Finally Alex spoke. “I guess my dad must've forgot to pay.”

Meredith bit her lip. “I don't think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your dad's a little behind in his bills.”

“You mean he hasn't paid you either?”

Meredith shrugged and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I'm sure he's good for it,” she said.

Alex frowned.

“Look, Alex, you have talent. Real talent. Look at how well you've done on Turnip. A good part of the credit goes to you. Doesn't matter what kind of riding you do—English, Western—you've got good hands and a really nice feel for horses. That's a rare thing.”

Alex couldn't believe his ears. Meredith wasn't one to throw compliments around.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“Don't push your luck, or I'll take it back. Now about this money thing,” she said. “Horses are expensive. Unless you're a silver-spoon type, you're going to struggle sometimes. But think of it this way: At least you've got talent. A lot of these big-money types, they've got cash all right, but you can't buy a seat and hands like yours.”

The knock on the window made both of them jump. Alex turned to see the man who'd been in line behind him and he quickly rolled down his window.

“I couldn't help but hear that you're looking to find instruction in the fine art of dressage.”

The man pronounced the word
dressage
in two parts: “dray-sage.” With his shiny bald head and clothes in muted and tasteful shades of green and brown, he looked like the sort of person who should have a pair of trained Border collies trotting at his heel as he strode through a field full of sheep.

The man handed a piece of paper through the window.

“Give us a call, ducks. We might be able to help you.”

Alex, surprised, took the piece of paper.

“And, lad? Here's a little something to encourage
the old man to pay the bills.” The man passed a dressage whip through the window. Alex noticed right away that it wasn't the modestly priced version he'd brought up to the counter. It was the best whip in the store.

The man turned, walked over to a low-slung green Jaguar, and drove away.

“Well,” Meredith demanded. “What does it say?”

Alex unfolded the piece of paper.

“Limestone Farm. There's a phone number.”