Her cheeks are bright crimson, her lips set in a grim line. She stands directly in front of Joe and straightens the reins before running them over his head. Then she picks up first his left foreleg and then his right, pulling them forward by the knee, making sure his hair lies flat beneath the girth.
"She's stalling," whispers one the girls.
"Do you blame her?"
My face burns. Each time Eva lays her fingers on a buckle, each time she slides them under a strap, I become more convinced that she's telling me to step in and put a stop to this. Finally I make a deal with myself: if she checks the throat latch, we're out of here.
Eva steps up to Joe's head and smoothes his forelock. She leans in close to his face and whispers. Then she slips her fingers under his throat latch.
I whip around to Nathalie. "Nathalie, I--"
"Quiet!" she barks.
My eyes spring open, but I am stunned into silence.
Eva turns and looks through the window of the lounge. Her mouth moves.
Nathalie lunges forward. She flicks the switch on the soundboard with one hand while snatching up the microphone with the other.
"What's that, hon?"
"I said, what do you want me to do?" says Eva.
"Oh, you know. Just warm up. Whatever."
Eva looks horrified. "What?"
"Just warm up. Just do, you know...stuff. I'll let you know when I want you to do something specific."
Eva blinks a few times at the window of the lounge. Then she turns and mounts.
My heart is in my throat.
A girly hiss from behind me: "Start the clock!"
"QUIET!" snaps Nathalie.
My head feels light, and I realize I'm hyperventilating. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to remember Lamaze breathing. Once my fingertips stop tingling, I look into the arena.
Eva and Joe float around the perimeter, light as tumbleweed. Eva sits erect and straight, her lower back pumping in time with his stride so that her upper body remains motionless. Her elbow is bent at a precise right angle. Joe chomps on the bit, and between chomps I see the reins snap slightly. He is giving her his head.
Nathalie scootches forward to the very edge of the plastic chair, leaning forward, rapt.
"One minute," whispers someone behind us.
Nathalie swings around on her chair. "If I have to say it again, there's gonna be trouble. Capiche?"
There is now utter silence behind us.
I concentrate on the scene in front of me, trying to remember to breathe.
Eva rolls her hands down at the wrist by half an inch and presses her legs into him--this is apparent only by a microscopic change in the width of her calf. Joe's body rounds further, his haunches coming forward. He's still chomping the bit, still giving her his head. His ears are perked, his tail trailing them like a banner.
Shoulder in, shoulder in, shoulder in; then haunches in, haunches in, haunches in. A half halt, and they rock forward into a canter. His back and neck are as arched as a Halloween cat, his hooves drumming the sand like fingers.
"Ahhhhhh..." says Nathalie, leaning her chin in her hand. "Oh, that's nice."
"Have I mentioned that Eva can be a real handful?" I say.
"What?" she says, distracted, and without taking her eyes from the arena.
Eva crosses to the left rail using a half pass, a sideways canter in which Joe's legs cross at each stride. Then they begin a passage.
Oh God, it's perfect--it looks like someone has filmed a high-stepping trotter and is pressing the pause button once a second.
I lean toward Nathalie. "Eva. She can be difficult," I say with increasing urgency. "You know, boy trouble."
"Ahhhhhh..." says Nathalie.
Eva halts Joe without any perceptible movement in her legs or hands. He just suddenly plants his feet squarely and stops. A pause of three seconds, and then he rolls forward into a canter. Eva circles him at the far end. Coming out of it, I see her fingers tighten, his ears perk, and I hold my breath--
They execute a perfect pirouette.
"It's not just boys. She smokes. She talks back. Heck, just this week she--"
Nathalie lifts a hand and wiggles her fingers at me, all without looking away from Eva and Joe.
I stare at the back of her head. I've never been shushed like this in my life. And then I wonder why the hell I'm trying to sabotage Eva's audition, and sit back with my mouth firmly shut.
Eva canters directly past the window, so close I get a good look at her face--she's concentrating so hard her chin is jutting and there are lines etched on her forehead. She looks just like Mutti.
She pulls Joe out of the corner, still cantering, and crosses the arena on the long diagonal. Within seconds I see why.
They're doing flying changes, one after another, literally skipping across the arena.
"Did you see that? Did you see that?" Nathalie spins on her seat to face me, jabbing her finger at the window.
I am speechless. The girls behind me buzz with excitement.
Nathalie swipes the microphone from the table in front of her. "Thank you, that's enough," she says.
Eva pulls Joe up. "What?"
"That's enough. You can dismount."
"What? You don't want me to audition?" says Eva, horrified. Her fingers tighten on the reins, her face goes pale.
"Honey, you just did," laughs Nathalie. "Nobody else has stayed on Joe for more than six minutes since we brought him here. Congratulations."
Eva's face moves seamlessly from horror to pure joy. She slides her feet from the stirrups and leans over to give Joe an enthusiastic pat. Then she dismounts and stands by his head, sliding her hand under his muzzle.
Joe stands perfectly still, licking and licking and licking the flat of her hand. When the girls pile out of the lounge and skip and laugh their way across the arena, Eva turns, beaming. And when Joe lifts his muzzle, wraps his neck around Eva's, and lays his head on her chest, I realize that there's no turning back.
"Don't worry, Mom."
I turn, startled. Nathalie is staring right at me.
"I heard every word you said about Eva. The interesting ones are always a handful, but I run a tight ship. I only take students who are between sixteen and twenty-one, and they tend to be a pretty self-contained unit. They work ten to twelve hours, six days a week and have no transportation of their own. If they want to go somewhere, they have to ask Margot or me. But mostly, at the end of the day the only thing they want to do is go to bed."
"Oh," I say, looking back into the arena. Eva is accepting congratulatory pats on the back, with a broad, open smile. I realize suddenly that her earlier reticence was not a wish to be rescued, it was a fear of not measuring up. Furthermore, had I followed through on my instinct to get us out of here before she rode, she probably would have taken out a contract on my life.
Eva waxes ecstatic the whole way home. She has no need for answers from me, and indeed, doesn't leave room for any.
"--and he's just solid, Mom. I mean, you can feel it right through the saddle. He's built like a brick shi--" She glances over quickly. "Er, I mean, he's solid, Mom. The horse is made of granite. Oh, hey! And he looks like granite, too! I mean, have you ever seen such a coat? Well, okay," she says, nodding grudgingly, conceding an unargued but obvious point, "I guess Hurrah still wins the prize for unusual coat, but have you ever seen such a beautiful roan? Honest to God, he looks blue. And all those specks on his flanks and stuff, Nathalie said they're from fighting with the other horses because he's always got to be the dominant one, wherever he is. Oh! Did I tell you that when they shipped him here he managed to get under--or over, they don't know which--the stall dividers? Not a scratch on him, but that was before he was gelded, so he actually has a foal on the ground. An accidental Smoky Joe Junior. Can you imagine that? Got loose and made the rounds in a slant-load trailer and actually managed to get one of the mares--"
I take a deep breath and try to follow what she's saying. It's not that I
'm uninterested--actually it's quite the opposite. I'm trying to absorb the knowledge that I've just lost my daughter to a horse. I was prepared to lend her to the training program, but Smoky Joe came out of nowhere, a freight train on a foggy night.
A fleeting smile crosses my lips. Eric Hamilton won't know what hit him.
"--and there was one point right at the very beginning where I wasn't sure what he was going to do, he was like a coiled spring, and then suddenly he went, like, 'Oh, it's you up there. Okay.' Like he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye, like he's my horse and he just knew it. Or, no, that's wrong. I'm his person, and he knew it. Yeah, that's it. Totally the other way around--"
She's still talking when we park around the back of the house, still talking as we mount the back porch.
"--and did you see when I asked him for the flying changes? No hesitation, nothing. Just skipped right across like it was nothing! Oh, Oma!" she shrieks as she opens the back door and catches sight of my mother.
She rushes over and grabs my shocked mother by both hands, spinning her around in a dance. "She took me! I'm in! And you won't believe my horse!"
Mutti cocks an eyebrow. "Your horse?"
"Yeah! His name is Smoky Joe, and he's a Nokota and he's usually such a terror the rest of the girls call him Smokin' Gun, but we just clicked and OHMIGOD you should have seen us, Oma! We were perfect, just floating. We just connected instantly. Apparently he never lets anyone ride him, ever, but the second I laid eyes on him, I just knew--"
I stare open-mouthed at my daughter, and then turn stiffly to hang my purse by the back door.
"Where are you going?" says Mutti.
"Nowhere," I say, turning back around.
But she doesn't mean me. She's facing the hallway.
Eva is gone, thumping up the stairs--two at a time apparently, since her footsteps run out before the stairs should. The door to her bedroom slams shut.
I stare at Mutti.
We hear drawers yanked forth, objects clunking and banging. Chairs shoved aside, and things scooped from surfaces. Her door opens again, followed by more thumping, and then another door opens--is she in the bathroom? Mutti's room? the linen closet?--and then shuffling and clunking as she drags something down the hall.
When I hear the Samsonite's loose wheel, I realize she's lugging all the suitcases into her room.
Mutti moves wordlessly to the fridge and removes the bottle of chardonnay we started last night.
"No," I say miserably. "Thanks, but no."
Mutti pauses, shrugs, and puts the bottle back in the fridge.
As I put my jacket back on, drawers continue to slam open and shut in the room above us.
Chapter 7
Hurrah stands utterly still as I sweep my hands across his body, over and over, round and round, pausing only to brush off the hair that collects on my palms like mats of prickly felt.
His winter coat is shedding out--in response to the increasing daylight rather than a change in temperature--and in my experience bare hands work better than any brush at removing loose hair. But I don't have a brush anyway, because I didn't come in here to groom him. I came in here because I just needed to be with him.
The moon throws only dim light through the bars of his window, and his brindling is invisible. He could be any solid-colored Hanoverian. Well, no, he couldn't--even under the shadow of night, there's no mistaking his magnificent conformation.
I continue running my hands in circles over his body. Eventually he utters a deep, shuddering sigh and allows his ears to droop. When I realize that I'm lulling him to sleep, I move quietly to his shoulder and press my nose up against his neck. I inhale, taking his scent as deeply into my body as I can. Then I slip my hand between his front legs, seeking his cowlick. When I find it, I twirl my fingertips around it, stopping several times to change direction. My face is still pressed against his cool, smooth shoulder, my other hand hooked over his withers.
After a few moments, I position myself by his left side, brace my hands on his rib cage, and leap up so that my weight is on my arms. I push my feet against the wall behind me and wriggle onto his back.
With my legs hanging loose, I lean forward so I'm resting on his neck. I run both hands toward his head--left under mane, right in the open--until I reach his ears, which I scratch in unison. When I'm finished, I grasp them in my fists and let them slide through--first one, then the other--before moving my hands back to his shoulders, smoothing the hair I roughed up only moments before.
Then I lie back, my legs slack and my head resting on his rump. His spine is padded and warm and slightly indented. I love the feel of my vertebrae stretched out along his. We fit like a zipper. I cross my arms on my chest and close my eyes.
"Hey sweetness."
At the sound of Dan's voice, Hurrah's body stiffens and my eyes snap open. I scramble upright, bracing a hand on each of Hurrah's flanks.
"Sorry--I didn't mean to startle you," Dan says quickly.
There's a soft thud as I drop to the floor.
"You didn't have to get off. I can wait for you upstairs."
"No," I say. "It's okay."
"I'm glad to see you on him," Dan says. "Even if it is just in his stall."
My face burns.
"Hey," he says gently. "Are you okay?"
I pause, and then turn and drop my forehead against his shoulder. "Actually I've had an appalling day."
"Why? What happened?"
"Eva was accepted into Nathalie Jenkins's training program."
Dan is silent for so long I look up. He's staring at me. "You're kidding, right?" he finally says.
"No."
"Annemarie?"
"Yes?"
"Perhaps I'm missing something, but isn't this what you wanted?"
I burst into tears. "Yes. I mean, it was the best available option, but my God! You should have seen her! She can't wait to get out from under my despotic rule. She hardly stopped long enough to give Mutti the good news before running upstairs to pack."
"When's she leaving?"
"Not for another three days. I guess she's going to live out of suitcases in the meantime." I turn and throw myself against his chest. "I'm going to be completely alone by the time I'm forty!"
"Oh, baby. Eva won't be far, will she? Nathalie's only in Columbia."
I frown against his shirt.
"That's not the point," I continue. "With Eva gone, the sum total of my life is part-time employment at my mother's riding academy. Most forty-year-old women have a little something more going for them at this point in their lives."
There's a long silence. I might as well have called myself a spinster. I look up at Dan, who has lines etched in his forehead. "Annemarie, are you unhappy with our relationship?"
"Oh, Dan, I don't know...It's just you've been away so much this winter. I mean, I know you've saved eighty-seven horses from slaughter since January--"
"Eighty-eight."
"See? How can I complain about that? Forget I said anything."
I try to twist away from him, but he won't let me. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me back around.
"Annemarie, I don't want to forget you said anything. If you're unhappy with our relationship, I need to know. Are you?"
"I don't know," I say, looking at my feet.
"It's a simple question, Annemarie. And one I need the answer to." His voice is harsh, and it shocks me.
I lift my hands and then drop them against my legs. "But the answer's not simple, is it? I love you, but I hardly ever see you, and when I do see you, we never do anything. I know your work is important. I'd never ask you to give it up. I've been trying to be patient and supportive and involved, but I was also hoping that we'd manage to...you know...spend more time together."
Move in together. Get married. That's what I should say, but somehow I can't make my tongue move the words out of my throat.
"Well, that's my fault then," he says gently. "Maybe I haven't made it clear just how much
I appreciate everything you do. The simple truth is without your help, I could never have made those runs to Canada. And there's no question Bella would have died. Heck, just this last week you saved Maisie's filly and performed a solo rescue. That's at least three horses, possibly four, who wouldn't be around right now if it weren't for you, personally." He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. "I won't be making these runs forever, baby. This winter has been hell on all of us. But in just a few months the pee farms will be closed and the horses dealt with, one way or another. If you can just hang on until then, we'll see a lot more of each other."
See a lot more of each other. That's not quite the level of commitment I was seeking, although, I suppose, technically it's what I asked for.
"Yes, well, all right then," I say miserably.
Hurrah snorts impatiently and shakes. He's ready to fall asleep and wants us out of his stall.
"So," says Dan, assuming a stern tone. "Are we going upstairs, or am I going to have to ravage you right here?"
"Upstairs," I say grumpily.
"Mmmm," he says, slipping his hands inside my vest. He cups my clothed breasts in his hands and runs his thumbs across my nipples. "I have an idea. Why don't I run us a bath?"
I gasp and close my eyes. I'd answer, except that I seem to have forgotten how to breathe.
That's one of the problems with Dan, if you can call it that. Our chemistry is so explosive I can never manage to stay upset even when it would be in my best interest to do so.
After he's ravaged me--beautifully, gloriously, sinfully--and I've forgiven him everything as I always do, we lie entangled on slightly damp sheets. My pillow is soaked through because my head got dunked several times before we left the bathtub, so I rest my wet head on his chest, feeling his voice rumble through his rib cage. I stroke him, running my hands up the soft skin on the underside of his arm, and then tracing my way back to his sternum, curling his hairs in my fist.
He straightens my wet tresses gently, separating the tangles and smoothing them across my back.
We are silent for a few minutes, caressing each other in the dark.
"Dan, do you remember when I said I'd had an appalling day?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, there's a little more to it than I told you."
"What do you mean?" he says, still stroking my back.
I pause. "I nearly did something terrible today."