into a long Saturday night,

  and I don’t really want

  to spend the rest of the day

  watching Dad and Zelda

  get blotto, so I ask Gabe

  for a ride home. When

  he agrees, Dad insists,

  I’ll have an eye on the clock.

  I know exactly how long it

  takes to get there and back,

  so don’t get cocky, hear?

  No worries. Straight there

  and back, and I promise

  to be the perfect gentleman.

  Your daughter is safe with me.

  Dad slaps Zelda on the butt.

  Wish I could promise your

  aunt is safe with me, but I am

  a man of my word. The two

  of them cackle like crows.

  I’m glad to be out of there,

  and grateful to Gabe for

  taking me home. His junker

  is what some people call

  a classic, but I mostly see

  it as just plain old. It could

  use some body work, not

  to mention upholstery.

  “What kind of car is this?”

  It’s a ’67 GTO, and it’s fast.

  He starts it up, and any doubt

  of its speed dissolves with

  the rev of its well-tuned engine.

  “Well, in that case, maybe

  I should remind you that

  you said I’d be safe in your care.”

  You don’t like speed? He pulls

  out onto the road carefully, putts

  through town. Is this slow enough?

  “You don’t have to drive like

  an old woman. I won’t jump

  out or do anything stupid.

  I guess I’m a bit overcautious.”

  Always worried about losing

  whatever advantage I might’ve

  recently gained. Sad really.

  What Fun Is That?

  That’s what he asks, and it’s a valid

  question. Wasn’t I only recently thinking

  about the folly of taking no chances?

  So when we get far enough out of town,

  I tell him, “So, go for it. Show me what

  she can do. I’ll even keep my eyes open.”

  He grins. Okay, if you’re sure. Hold

  on to your hat! Pedal to the metal,

  we’re over a hundred in mere seconds

  flat. The acceleration forces me back

  into the seat and the landscape outside

  the windows blurs. The rush is incredible.

  If I ever do get my own car, I’d better

  settle for a clunker with an engine half

  this size or expect regular ticketing.

  When Gabe dials back, regret descends.

  “Wow. That was awesome. I’d never

  have guessed this car could do that.”

  Never judge a book by its cover. But

  I’m glad Fiona and I could impress you.

  “Wait, wait, wait. Fiona? Are you,

  like, a Shrek fan or something?”

  Is anyone not a Shrek fan? But hey,

  I’ve got an idea. Wanna drive? Fast?

  He’d let me drive his car? Of course,

  he has no idea. “I don’t have my license.”

  Why not? No one ever taught you how,

  or you flunked the test, or what?

  “Actually, I’ve got my permit, and logged in

  my hours, but Dad won’t sign the application.”

  You live pretty far out here. You’d think

  he’d want you to have transportation.

  “I guess it’s his way of keeping me close

  to home. Doesn’t really matter. I don’t

  have a car or any way to buy one. No car,

  no job. No job, no car. Catch-22.”

  If you’re comfortable behind the wheel,

  you can still take Fiona for a short spin.

  I won’t ask to see your license. It’s a tempting

  invitation, and I’m thinking it over when . . .

  I Spy Something

  “Hey. Take it easy. What’s that?”

  It’s hard to see in the failing light,

  but it’s in the road, moving toward us.

  I think it’s a horse. But no rider.

  The saddle on the tall trotting

  chestnut is, indeed, empty. “Can you

  angle the car across the road and stop?”

  He manages to block most of

  both lanes diagonally, and when

  the winded horse notices, it slows

  to a walk. I get out of the car, approach

  the sweating mare carefully. “Whoa,

  now,” I tell her. “Hold on, big girl.”

  She tilts her head, perhaps considering

  escape. But when I hold out my hand,

  something makes her decide to come

  toward me and allow me to take hold

  of her reins. I stroke the length

  of her wide pale blaze. “Atta girl.”

  I steer her to the shoulder, allowing

  Gabe to park the GTO off the asphalt.

  When he gets out and joins me, he says,

  That was awesome. You know horses?

  “Some. My Oklahoma grandparents own

  them, or did. Pops taught me to ride when

  I was little. And one of Dad’s girlfriends

  lived on a ranch. Nadia, who worshipped

  her warmbloods, showed me a lot more.

  So yes, I’m acquainted with horses.”

  Well, this one must’ve left someone behind.

  “I’d say that’s a given. Tell you what.

  You take the car and see if you can find

  them. I’ll ride the horse in that direction.

  She’s awfully tall, though. Can you please

  give me a boost?” I’d try it without help

  but my jeans are kind of tight, and I don’t

  want to rip the butt seam. I had no idea

  I’d go riding today. I expect an awkward

  attempt, but he immediately interlocks

  his fingers, creating a pocket for my foot,

  and launches me into the saddle. “Okay,

  wait. I take it you know horses, too?”

  I do. I’ll tell you about it later, though.

  The Mare Argues

  When I try to turn her around.

  That means home, or at least

  whatever she’s focused on

  reaching, is in the opposite

  direction. I do my best to talk

  her into acquiescing. “Come on,

  girl. Your person needs a ride.”

  Reluctantly, she lets me head

  the other way. Rather than hurry,

  we walk to cool her off, and I

  think about Nadia, who was

  the last person I saw tossed

  off a horse into the dirt, not

  that she didn’t deserve it.

  The woman was a piece of work.

  Dad hooked up with her in

  Arizona, where ranch life is only

  pleasant seasonally. Maybe

  that was part of her problem.

  While Pops insisted I ride

  his beautifully trained

  quarter horses using nothing

  more than halters for reining,

  Nadia got off on spade bits

  in her bridles, and I’m pretty

  sure that’s how she dealt

  with men—pain as control.

  I’ve no clue if Dad gets off

  on pain, but relinquishing

  the reins, so to speak, is for

  sure not his thing, and YAY!

  Since he didn’t fit Nadia’s profile,

  the relationship quickly went

  south. Still, I loved being there.

  Her horses were stunning—


  big Spanish mounts. I learned

  not to fear their size. And, unlike

  Nadia, I didn’t rely on ugly bits

  to gain their cooperation.

  What I discovered was how

  easily horses worked using

  nothing but subtle shifts

  of weight, and once in a while,

  for punctuation, a gentle

  touch of knees or hands.

  This was their instinct

  and, somehow, mine.

  But then, no surprise, Dad

  decided it was time to leave,

  or Nadia did. That was more

  than two years ago, and I haven’t

  been anywhere near a horse

  since. Until now. Guess

  it’s like riding a bike.

  Once you’ve accomplished

  the skill, you never forget how.

  We Crest a Small Rise

  And up ahead in the distance,

  I can see Gabe’s GTO, pulled over

  on the shoulder. I squint and discover

  him in an open expanse, well off

  the road, kneeling over something

  on the ground. I urge the mare into

  a gallop and when we get closer,

  I notice a person, lying motionless

  in the dirt. Doubtless they were

  ejected from the saddle I’m currently

  occupying. “Everything okay?” I shout,

  though it’s a ridiculous question.

  Even from here, Gabe’s concern

  is obvious. She’s in shock, he yells.

  Get my jacket off the backseat.

  I’ve already called 9-1-1.

  I hop down off the horse and loop

  her reins through the door handle.

  If she really wants to get loose,

  she will, I guess. I grab Gabe’s coat

  and hustle on foot to join him. When

  I reach his side, he pulls back, and

  I recognize the person he’s tending

  to. Hillary. Damn. “Is she conscious?”

  No. Not sure if she’s got head or neck

  injuries, so I don’t want to raise

  her feet. For now, we’ll just keep her

  warm and let the EMTs figure it out.

  I’m torn between joining his vigil

  and taking better care of the horse,

  who might spook if a car goes by or at

  an approaching siren and flashing lights.

  Not much I can do for Hillary, and

  I know she’d be worried about the mare.

  “I’m going to move her horse away

  from the road. I’ll be right back.”

  He tucks the coat carefully around

  Hillary. Call your dad and let him know

  why I won’t be back right away, okay?

  Don’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  I wouldn’t have even thought

  about calling Dad, but it’s a good

  idea. When he answers his phone,

  he’s skeptical at first, like we’d go

  to such lengths to try and deceive

  him. “Listen. Hillary’s on the basketball

  team, and it’s a pretty great coincidence

  that we found her when we did.”

  He Asks

  About a dozen questions,

  most of which I can only

  answer with, “I don’t know.”

  How bad is she hurt?

  What was she doing out there?

  How long till the ambulance arrives?

  What are you going to do after that?

  Have you called her parents?

  Okay, that last one deserves

  some thought. I don’t know

  her parents at all, but their

  number must be listed.

  Their ranch is what’s known

  in the trade as a “going concern.”

  “Listen, Dad, I’ll get back to you

  when I’ve got more answers.

  I’ll try calling her parents now.”

  I can’t believe I didn’t think

  about doing that myself.

  I ask information for “Grantham,”

  but the operator can’t find a listing.

  I can’t remember the name

  of the ranch. Something with a G.

  The Lazy G? Crooked G? No,

  not right. Then it strikes me

  that Hillary’s probably carrying

  a cell phone, with relevant

  numbers programmed in.

  I take hold of the horse, whose

  breathing has slowed to warm

  puffs of steam exhaled into

  the rapidly cooling air. Just

  as we turn away from the road,

  an old pickup belches by, and

  I know without looking who

  it belongs to. Garrett doesn’t

  even slow down to see what’s

  going on. In fact, he picks up

  speed, hoping, I’m sure, to kick

  up some dust. The mare reacts

  with a nervous skitter, and

  I’m glad Garrett’s timing isn’t

  worse. “Easy, lady,” I tell her.

  “He’s a jerk, but you’re okay.”

  I lead her out into the field,

  close to the girl she left lying

  there. “Hey, Gabe. See if Hillary

  has a phone on her, would you?”

  When he asks why and I explain,

  he says, Would you please do it?

  I’m uncomfortable reaching into

  her pockets. I’ll hold on to the horse.

  He’s Comfortable

  With that, at least, so we trade places

  and as I kneel beside my not-quite-friend

  he walks the mare to keep her calm.

  Hillary’s wearing a Windbreaker,

  and I try those pockets first, come

  up empty. I’m scared to move her

  too much, but the front pockets

  on her jeans yield nothing, so I reach

  under her and find what I’m looking

  for. She moans a little as I extract

  it, and I have no clue if that’s bad

  or good. Maybe she’s coming to?

  “Hillary? It’s Ariel. Don’t move,

  okay?” There’s no sign she hears

  me, but perhaps the sound of a familiar

  voice will comfort her somehow.

  When I go into her contacts, the first

  one to pop up is “Daddy.”

  “Answer. Answer,” I pray, but it goes

  to voice mail. “Um, Mr. Grantham?

  This is Ariel Pearson. I’m one of

  Hillary’s teammates. There’s been

  an accident. Looks like Hillary

  was tossed from her horse and . . .”

  I offer the spotty details, and as

  I disconnect I can hear the not-so-

  subtle approach of the ambulance.

  Noting the horse’s reaction, I offer

  to take charge of her while Gabe

  goes to wave down the EMTs.

  As I move her farther away from

  the scene, I look for another contact

  and find a Peg Grantham under favorites.

  She answers on the fourth ring, but

  freaks at the unfamiliar voice. What

  are you doing with Hillary’s phone?

  Her accusatory shriek pisses me off.

  “Okay, listen. Hillary’s horse threw her.

  My friend and I found her, and called

  9-1-1. The ambulance just got here,

  so she’ll be on her way to the hospital

  soon. I’ve got the mare and can bring her

  to you, or you can come get her. Just

  tell me what I should do. By the way,

  I’m not into stealing horses or phones.”

  Well, that’s c
ertainly good to hear.

  Do you know where the ranch is located?

  The foreman can meet you at the gate.

  Okay, That Was Weird

  I guess maybe expecting

  an apology was too much,

  but, “I know where you are,

  and I’m happy to deliver

  the horse, but don’t you

  want to know how Hillary is?”

  Well, of course. You just upset

  me and I forgot to ask. Is she

  okay? Any bones broken?

  “I’m really not sure, but I

  can tell you she’s unconscious.”

  And now I really have to ask,

  “Are you Hillary’s mother?”

  I realize I know nothing about

  her family except the rumors

  passed around about her dad:

  He’s a real estate developer

  who owns a sizable chunk

  of the state, and has powerful

  friends in California politics.

  Who knows how much is true?

  No, I happen to be Hillary’s aunt.

  Her father’s out of town and left

  me in charge, but I’ll let him know

  what happened. Oh, and I guess

  I ought to thank you for your help.

  I’m Glad

  Dear, sweet Peg Grantham

  isn’t Hillary’s actual mom.

  Such a caring individual!

  Now I feel sorry for Hillary.

  Busy dad. Ice-blooded aunt,

  who’s apparently her caretaker.

  No wonder Hillary is so cool.

  Gabe, on the other hand,

  impresses me with

  not only his warmth, but

  also his bank of knowledge:

  treatment for shock;

  equine handling; giving

  a girl a decent boost.

  I watch as they strap

  Hillary to a backboard,

  under Gabe’s watchful eye.

  She’s moving a little, and

  they warn her to stop.

  Does that mean she’s come

  around? Yes. She’s asking

  about her horse. Niagara?

  Where’s Niagara? Is she okay?

  At the sound of Hillary’s voice,

  the mare’s ears start twitching.

  I lead her a little closer, hoping

  Hillary can see her. “It’s me,

  Ariel. Don’t worry about Niagara.

  I’ve got her, and I’ve already

  talked to your aunt and

  arranged to take her home.

  You concentrate on getting well.”

  As the EMTs lift the backboard

  onto a gurney, then roll it toward

  the ambulance’s maw, Hillary

  says, Ariel? But . . . how?

  “Just a strange coincidence.

  Everything’s going to be fine,