enjoy the peace of the day, but she chattered on and on.
“My husband said the funniest thing last night…”
“My husband’s been grumbling about the amount of time I’ve spent at the barn…”
“My husband’s mother makes the best coleslaw you ever tasted in your life…”
“My husband’s worried that I’m riding out too soon…”
“My husband says I shouldn’t get a perm…”
Just then, a pheasant, spooked perhaps by the rocks Zip kicked when he walked his foot-dragging obstinate walk, burst from the gutter’s wild wheat, all green head and brown feathers, its red-rimmed eye, its panicked chuckchuckchuckchuck .
Before the sight of the bird could translate into thought, all three horses spun and bolted, racing across the road, jumping its short bank into the neighboring field. Fear trumped arthritis, and for thirty seconds, Foxfire was young again. He sprang with that magnificent, powerful thrust of muscle, and I slacked the reins as if I could will it to last.
Three paces behind us, Sunny slowed and Foxfire remembered his age. Our hoof-prints marked a wide swath of spoiled crop. There would be an angry farmer. Zip, empty-saddled, pulled mouthfuls of green alfalfa.
“Shit.” I jumped down to grab Zip’s dangling reins while Dawn went to find Jenny. Already, I was constructing worst-case scenarios: a broken spine and life-long paralysis, a broken neck. Luminous bones hung before me, delicate as smoke against the black of film. Bodies break in ways that cannot be fixed. You could lose someone that quickly—I saw it everyday at work. I knew it earlier still. There were mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Mouse’s death at the end of our senior year had taught me, but I wouldn’t think of that.
I mounted, ponying Zip back to the ditch. The thrill of his bolt faded, Foxy hung his head and plodded on. For yards, there was no sound except for a slight stirring of wind in grass. I had momentarily wished ill upon Jenny, just as I’d wished the worst onto Mouse in a spasm of anger a decade back, and again it manifested. You have to be careful about what energy you put out into the world , my mother always said. I shook off the thought, superstition, and let Foxy carry me forth. Grass blades slid over grass blades. Whispers. We’d covered some ground. Finally, the low sound of voices speaking seriously floated over the bank’s edge.
Dawn was helping Jenny pick rocks out of her forearm. There wasn’t much blood, just enough to make the dirt stick. The injury was only skin-deep, but the skin is where the nerves are. Jenny turned her red and burning eyes to mine.
“You O.K.?” I asked.
Dawn answered for her. “A little shook up is all. Her hip’s pretty good and sore, but this,” she held up Jenny’s forearm, “is the only damage other than bruises.”
“Thank God for helmets and thick blue jeans,” I said. Jenny was drawn, paler even than usual, and terribly, terribly sober.
Like me, Foxfire was tall—just over seventeen hands. Literally on my high horse, looking down on Jenny in her ditch, I was imperious, even if I didn’t mean to be. I held Zip’s reins forward. It was a lame offering, and Jenny made no move to take them. “You said nothing would happen.”
It was Dawn who answered. “Nothing did happen.”
Jenny raised her arm, letting blood speak its eloquent testimony.
Dawn scowled. “You’ve got two friends at your side, your horse is caught, and you’re able to ride. You’re scratched, but y’ain’t broke.” She took Zip’s reins from my hand and slapped them into Jenny’s. “You’re earning your stripes. You want to be a rider, then you’d better get used to it, and the sooner the better.”
There was no arguing with the jut of Dawn’s pointed chin or the flame in her eye. Jenny took the reins, and heaved herself back into the saddle. She flinched as her arm grazed the pommel, but she said nothing.
This was why I loved Dawn, though I had been on the
“My husband said the funniest thing last night…”
“My husband’s been grumbling about the amount of time I’ve spent at the barn…”
“My husband’s mother makes the best coleslaw you ever tasted in your life…”
“My husband’s worried that I’m riding out too soon…”
“My husband says I shouldn’t get a perm…”
Just then, a pheasant, spooked perhaps by the rocks Zip kicked when he walked his foot-dragging obstinate walk, burst from the gutter’s wild wheat, all green head and brown feathers, its red-rimmed eye, its panicked chuckchuckchuckchuck .
Before the sight of the bird could translate into thought, all three horses spun and bolted, racing across the road, jumping its short bank into the neighboring field. Fear trumped arthritis, and for thirty seconds, Foxfire was young again. He sprang with that magnificent, powerful thrust of muscle, and I slacked the reins as if I could will it to last.
Three paces behind us, Sunny slowed and Foxfire remembered his age. Our hoof-prints marked a wide swath of spoiled crop. There would be an angry farmer. Zip, empty-saddled, pulled mouthfuls of green alfalfa.
“Shit.” I jumped down to grab Zip’s dangling reins while Dawn went to find Jenny. Already, I was constructing worst-case scenarios: a broken spine and life-long paralysis, a broken neck. Luminous bones hung before me, delicate as smoke against the black of film. Bodies break in ways that cannot be fixed. You could lose someone that quickly—I saw it everyday at work. I knew it earlier still. There were mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Mouse’s death at the end of our senior year had taught me, but I wouldn’t think of that.
I mounted, ponying Zip back to the ditch. The thrill of his bolt faded, Foxy hung his head and plodded on. For yards, there was no sound except for a slight stirring of wind in grass. I had momentarily wished ill upon Jenny, just as I’d wished the worst onto Mouse in a spasm of anger a decade back, and again it manifested. You have to be careful about what energy you put out into the world , my mother always said. I shook off the thought, superstition, and let Foxy carry me forth. Grass blades slid over grass blades. Whispers. We’d covered some ground. Finally, the low sound of voices speaking seriously floated over the bank’s edge.
Dawn was helping Jenny pick rocks out of her forearm. There wasn’t much blood, just enough to make the dirt stick. The injury was only skin-deep, but the skin is where the nerves are. Jenny turned her red and burning eyes to mine.
“You O.K.?” I asked.
Dawn answered for her. “A little shook up is all. Her hip’s pretty good and sore, but this,” she held up Jenny’s forearm, “is the only damage other than bruises.”
“Thank God for helmets and thick blue jeans,” I said. Jenny was drawn, paler even than usual, and terribly, terribly sober.
Like me, Foxfire was tall—just over seventeen hands. Literally on my high horse, looking down on Jenny in her ditch, I was imperious, even if I didn’t mean to be. I held Zip’s reins forward. It was a lame offering, and Jenny made no move to take them. “You said nothing would happen.”
It was Dawn who answered. “Nothing did happen.”
Jenny raised her arm, letting blood speak its eloquent testimony.
Dawn scowled. “You’ve got two friends at your side, your horse is caught, and you’re able to ride. You’re scratched, but y’ain’t broke.” She took Zip’s reins from my hand and slapped them into Jenny’s. “You’re earning your stripes. You want to be a rider, then you’d better get used to it, and the sooner the better.”
There was no arguing with the jut of Dawn’s pointed chin or the flame in her eye. Jenny took the reins, and heaved herself back into the saddle. She flinched as her arm grazed the pommel, but she said nothing.
This was why I loved Dawn, though I had been on the
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