"I beg your pardon?" I say.
"Kccchchhchcchch e weccchhhh e schguu?"
"I, uh--I'm sorry, I can't understand you, but my name is Annemarie Zimmer and I'm here with my daughter, Eva Aldrich. We have an appointment with Nathalie for four thirty."
"Kcchcchchh e wuuu," says the box. Then the gates swing slowly inward. I roll my window back up and drive through.
Wyldewood is better described as an operation than a farm. The buildings--two barns and an indoor arena--are huge and new, with cedar siding instead of vinyl. The walls are red and the trim a pewter gray--some painter's attempt at capturing Wyldewood's stable colors, which are crimson and silver. Windows dot the long sides of each barn.
The property is sectioned off into individual paddocks and outdoor schooling rings. About half of the paddocks contain horses, each turned out singly, which is the fate of horses in truly competitive barns. There are Thoroughbreds, Dutch and German Warmbloods, Oldenburgs, Hanoverians, and one that looks like a Holsteiner, although I'm judging purely by height, face, and neck since the legs, body, and feet of the horses are completely obscured by red coverings. But what I can see is magnificent: their necks are thickly muscled and gleaming, their faces noble, with the bemused expression of creatures who are entirely sure of their value on this earth.
Behind everything, at the top of a steep hill, is a house--an impressive white colonial with large shade trees whose original outline has been obscured by many additions, including a four-car garage. I can't help but wonder whether it contains the lemon yellow Maserati Nathalie won at last year's Jumper Classic. Lined up beside the garage are three shiny gooseneck horse trailers, each of them crimson and silver and probably capable of hauling six horses.
Even though Nathalie does double duty as a Grand Prix show jumper and four-star eventer (as I did back in the Cretaceous period), and even though she's won some of the biggest purses both disciplines have to offer, it wouldn't be anywhere near enough to support what's going on here. There's definitely income from somewhere else--and plenty of it.
As we wind our way to the parking lot, Eva's face is glued to the window. A patch of fog furls and unfurls on the glass in time to her breathing.
I pull into a spot at the end of a long line of cars and get out. To my surprise, Eva remains in the car.
"Annemarie! Eva!"
Nathalie herself strides toward us in tan breeches, leather paddock boots, and the ubiquitous quilted vest. She is in her mid-forties, wiry, with dark brown hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. "Glen called down and said you'd arrived. How are you?"
"Good," I say. "Cold. Beautiful place you have."
"Thank you." She turns to Eva, who has finally climbed from the car. "And how are you, young lady?"
"Fine, thank you," she says in tiny voice. I do a double take, checking that it's still Eva who is standing next to me.
She's blushing, looking down and scrubbing her toe in the dirt.
Nathalie turns to the barn entrance and cups her mouth with her hands. "Margot!" She waits a minute and then calls again, "Margot!" Another pause, with her head cocked. "Bah! She can't hear me. Come on inside," she says, turning and leading the way.
The interior of the barn is as warm as our house--no wonder the outside horses are all in blankets and leg wraps. There's not a single winter coat among them.
The aisle is wide and airy, and lined with huge box stalls. The concrete floor has not a speck of hay or mud on it, and when I look up, I realize there are skylights in the peaked roof. Birds twitter happily in the rafters.
About halfway up the aisle a tall horse is in cross-ties, surrounded by young women.
"Margot!" calls Nathalie.
"Yes?" answers a woman crouching beside the horse. She stands up and turns toward us. She's in her late twenties, also a brunette, and also slight.
"Come meet Eva. And her mother. Annemarie, Eva, this is Margot, my head groom."
"Stable manager," says Margot.
"Right. Stable manager. Anyway, I'd like to talk to Annemarie for a while. Can you show Eva around?"
"Sure," says Margot.
"Relax, kid," says Nathalie, giving Eva a friendly whack on the shoulder. "No one's gonna bite you. Except maybe Pinocchio. You'll want to watch yourself around Pinocchio."
Even though Nathalie winks, Eva barely cracks a smile. Seeing Eva so completely starstruck fills me with unspeakable tenderness.
"Come on," Margot says, leaning toward her in a conspiratorial fashion. "We'll show you the apartment first."
Eva, Margot, and the other girls--all of whom are roughly Eva's age--make their way down the aisle, leaving me alone with Nathalie and the horse.
He's an enormous chestnut, seventeen hands if he's an inch. He regards me curiously. I extend the back of my hand for him to sniff and then lay it on his neck. It's rock solid, as is the rest of him.
"Is he a Trakehner?" I ask.
"Yes."
"He's gorgeous."
"Beauregard's my champion eventer, a two-time Olympic medalist. Silver and bronze."
"Really? What year?"
"Ninety-two," she says. "And ninety-six."
I freeze mid-pat.
"I hear you've got his teammate in your barn," says Nathalie.
A prickle of dread shoots up my neck and across my cheeks.
"I read about it in the papers last year," she says in a steady voice. "Besides, word kind of got around the circuit, if you know what I mean."
My shame is hideous. People have been talking about me all winter, and I wasn't even aware--although I suppose that's a blessing. I wonder if Eva caught wind of it at Canterbury? And what on earth will she hear from this point on?
I drop my hand from Beauregard's shoulder.
"No need to be uncomfortable," Nathalie says. "Quite frankly, you came across as something of a hero. McCullough's a bastard and we all know it. So how is the great striped Hanoverian anyway?"
"He's fine, thanks."
"He lost an eye, is that right?"
"Yes."
"Otherwise he's sound?"
"He's perfect," I say.
"Well, good for you. McCullough can fry in hell, for all I'm concerned."
"Me too."
There's a moment of awkward silence. I turn to face her, still feeling the heat of my blush.
"So," says Nathalie, clapping her hands in front of her. Beauregard yanks his head up, startled. "Let's get down to brass tacks. I saw Eva ride at Canterbury. I think she has huge potential. Her lineage doesn't hurt," she adds, looking pointedly at me.
"She's worked very hard this year."
"So why haven't I seen her before Canterbury?"
"I--I...uh..." I stammer, rummaging through my head for an excuse. But it doesn't matter, because Nathalie has moved on--
"What's her history? How long has she been riding?"
"Her whole life, really. But she only began training seriously this year."
"And you're the one who's been training her?"
"No. We have another trainer."
"Huh. I'm surprised, given your history," she muses.
"Actually it's because of my history," I say softly.
"Ah..." she says, as understanding dawns on her. "Okay. Fair enough. Anyway, she's got a rock solid seat, and that's the kind of foundation I look for. It's not something that can be taught. I mean, you can teach a good seat, of course, but then there's the other kind, the kind you're born with. You know what I'm talking about."
I nod, picturing Eva stuck to Hurrah's bare back like glue.
"I have two programs for students. Normally I don't have a preference, but in this case I do. Ultimately it's up to you."
"What are they?"
"Boarders bring their own horses and pay a fee, both for board and lessons. Working students campaign my horses and live here. They earn their keep around the barn. Either way, if the student is still in high school the parent has to pick up part of the cost of the tutor. And everybody goes
home on Sundays. Unless they live too far away, of course. You're only about an hour away, right?"
"Uh, yes," I say. "We're probably looking at the working student option."
"So you don't plan to have Eva campaign Hurrah?"
"No," I say quickly.
"Why?"
"Because he's only got one eye."
"That doesn't disqualify him."
"I beg your pardon?" I say weakly, because a terrible thought has just crept into my head. Is Nathalie feigning interest in Eva to get at Hurrah?
"As long as he has full sight in his other eye, he's fine," she says matter-of-factly. "Horses can't see the jumps they're going to take once they get within six feet of them anyway."
"Please don't tell Eva that," I say miserably. I glance from side to side, seeking my daughter. We've been duped. I want to go home. Where the hell have they taken her--
"Don't tell Eva what?" says Nathalie, apparently completely unaware of my distress.
"About the regulations. I really, really don't want to bring Hurrah out of retirement. He's seventeen, he's got some issues with his legs, and, well, just no. He's earned his rest, and he's going to get it."
Nathalie's brown eyes bore shamelessly into me. Then she nods. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that. Because I have a specific horse in mind for Eva."
My eyes widen.
"Follow me," she says, ducking under Beauregard's cross-ties and marching down the aisle.
After a second's hesitation, I duck under as well. She's walking so fast I have to jog to catch up.
"But what about him?" I say breathlessly.
"Who?" says Nathalie, marching onward.
"Beauregard!" I say in amazement. "Are we just going to leave him there?"
"The girls will get him."
"But they just went off with Eva."
"Oh, honey, that was just some of the girls. I've got girls coming out my ears," she mutters, waving both hands. "Girls, girls, everywhere girls."
She steps into the indoor arena. Before following, I turn and look back down the aisle.
Beauregard has been swarmed by girls. Two are cooing into his face and three are adjusting leg wraps.
Nathalie leads me straight through the enormous arena and through a door on the far side into another building full of box stalls. She comes to a stop in front of a plaque that says SMOKY JOE.
"Here he is," she says.
I peer inside. My eyebrows shoot upward.
"Here, I'll take him out." Nathalie grabs a lead rope from a hook, and slides the door open just a crack.
A blue roan face with black forelock and intelligent eyes immediately pushes itself into the space, nudging the door further open. Nathalie hooks up the lead rope. I can't help noticing that she threads the nose chain across his muzzle.
I stand back as she leads the horse from the stall. He's a true blue roan--white and black hairs evenly interspersed all over his body, with scattered black flecks and a black mane and tail. His face is wide, with large, well-defined nostrils, his tail set low off a sloping croup. His body is so compact it looks short, but it's not. He's just extremely solid, his shoulders and flanks huge, his neck as cresty as a stallion's. I glance underneath. Gelded--but I'll wager it happened after he was fully mature.
But more surprising is that I haven't the foggiest clue what he is. I flip through my internal database trying to come up with a breed--or even a combination of breeds--but his shape is utterly unfamiliar to me. Finally I give up. "What is he?"
"Ha! Good for you," says Nathalie, keeping her chin out of the way because the horse is using her as a scratching post. "So many people pretend they know everything. He's a Nokota."
"A what?"
"A Nokota," she says, pushing the horse's face away and then straightening his wavy forelock. She puts her other hand under his muzzle. He starts licking her hand.
"I've never heard of them," I say.
"They're wild horses from the Badlands of North Dakota."
"This is a wild horse?"
"Well, not Joe, personally. But yes, they're descendants of the Indian plains ponies. In fact, Joe here is a direct descendant of the horses confiscated from Sitting Bull. A few bands of them got inadvertently closed into Theodore Roosevelt National Park in the forties when the government was rounding up and shooting wild horses. It's the only reason the breed survived."
"No kidding," I say, taking a closer look at this horse. His legs are stocky, his head heavy, his low tail wavy and thick. There are hints of Mustang, of Andalusian, of Friesian about him. He gazes back at me, bemused. "Well, he certainly looks tough."
"Tough as nails. Have to be to survive in the Badlands. Eventually the government agreed to leave a demonstration herd in the park, but they also decided they were too ugly and tried to change the phenotype--"
I gawk at Nathalie.
Phenotype? Did she just slip phenotype into the conversation?
"--wanted to replace all the herd stallions with modern breeds. Said that any breed with this many blue roans had to be inbred, or some nonsense like that. I mean, look at this guy," she says with obvious outrage, swooshing a hand through the air. "Does he look inbred to you? Anyway, in the end two brothers basically saved the breed. It's an interesting story--I can give you some articles if you want. They're amazing horses. They give their entire heart and soul to the task at hand, whatever that is, from roping to dressage to whatever."
"And this is the horse you have in mind for Eva?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because I saw her ride that other horse--what was his name?"
"Malachite."
"I saw her take him through a course he had no business being on at all--sorry, no offense," she says, glancing at me quickly.
"None taken," I say. "I have absolutely no ego wrapped up in Malachite."
"And she got a clear round out of him anyway," Nathalie continues. "She's a strong rider, and that's what Joe needs."
Tiny little pings of warning register on my maternal radar. "Why's that?" I ask warily.
"He's very well-trained indeed--I got him from Yvonne Richards. He's got enormous potential. Simply enormous. But he's young. Seven. And strong-willed. And stubborn."
"I thought you said Nokotas give their heart and soul," I say slowly.
"They do, but not to just anyone. It's got to be the right person. So far, he hasn't taken to anyone here."
Larger flares now pop in the periphery of my brain. "When you say, 'hasn't taken to anyone,' what exactly do you mean?"
"I mean that he won't let just anyone ride him."
The alarm bells are shrieking now. "You know, on second thought, I'm not sure I think this is such a good--"
"Follow me," Nathalie says, heading for the arena with Joe clip-clopping beside her.
Eva is on the far side of the arena in the center of a group of giggling girls. The top two buttons of her shirt are undone, and she's pulling it aside, showing off her tattoo. The girls lean in, making admiring noises. A couple trace the unicorn's outline with their fingers. Another girl lifts the edge of her sweatshirt, displaying her navel piercing. More oohs and ahhs.
"Margot!" shouts Nathalie, striding toward them.
The girls straighten their carriage and clothing and fall silent, waiting until Nathalie and Joe stop in front of them.
"Show Eva where Joe's stuff is. Eva, I want you to tack up Smoky Joe and bring him back here."
Margot steps forward to take the lead rope.
"No," Nathalie says firmly. "I want Eva to lead him."
Margot shrugs and falls back.
Eva's eyes widen, and there's a second's pause before she steps forward. When she does, Joe's ears swivel forward, perked. They're fluted, large as tulips at the bottom. I'll bet he could hear a bird fluttering from a mile away. He lifts his nose, stretching it forward, sniffing.
Nathalie hands Eva the lead rope and steps out of the way.
Eva's eyes sparkle, swooping across the wh
ole of the blue roan Nokota, and then going over each inch of him again, and again, and again, as though she can't believe what she's seeing. She offers him her hand and he presses his nose into it, nostrils flaring in and out.
And then from deep in his throat he rumbles: huh-huh-huh, huh-huh-huh, huh-huh-huh.
Oh dear God.
I'm doomed. Eva's doomed. We're all doomed.
I glance at Nathalie, who watches the meeting with greedy eyes.
Nathalie takes me to the lounge. Or rather, leads the way to it, because she always manages to stay a dozen steps in front of me.
Nathalie's lounge is much like ours, an enclosed room with a large window that faces the arena. And like ours, it's outfitted with mismatched furniture that ranges from worn-down couches to hastily constructed plywood tables to stackable lawn chairs.
Nathalie takes a seat in a white plastic lawn chair in front of the soundboard, and I follow suit. She crosses her legs and leans back in her seat.
"There's coffee over there if you want some," she says, waving behind her.
"No thanks," I mumble, wishing something stronger were on offer. I glance nervously at my watch.
After a few minutes, a stream of girls enters the lounge. They line up against the back wall, whispering and giggling, throwing their arms around each others' necks and poking each other in the ribs.
Eva enters the arena with Joe.
"Quiet!" says Nathalie, raising a hand.
The girls shush each other and fall silent. Sort of.
"Three minutes," whispers a voice from behind me.
"Five!"
"Two, tops."
"You can't call two. I already called two."
"No, Kris called two!"
"Then I call three."
"You can't call three--Maggie called three."
"Fine! Four and a half."
"Naw, he'll have her off in one and a half. Remember Elizabeth?"
"I said, QUIET!" Nathalie yelps.
Eva leads Joe to the center of the arena and runs down the stirrups. She pulls the right stirrup iron into her armpit to check for length, and then comes back around to the left side and does the same with the other. She checks the girth. She fiddles and adjusts, checking the buckle on the noseband, and then rechecks the girth.
She checks so many things I get suspicious. Has she changed her mind? Is she trying to send me a signal to get her out of this because things have gone too far for her to get herself out without losing face?
I shift forward on my seat, suddenly on full alert.
Oh, baby, I'll get you out of here. Just let me know. Just give me the signal--