Read Online Champagne for Buzzards by Phyllis Smallman - Free Book Online

full of air, a neat trick Joey had. When I snugged up the cinch he’d blow out the air and leave a loose saddle.
    â€œAre you sure you want to ride this guy if he’s as bad as you say?”
    â€œI told Clay I’d make sure he got exercised.”
    â€œWell, he’s a trickster,” Tully said, and gave another yank on the belly strap. “This horse has more attitude than brains. You two are a matched set.”
    Marley was talking a mile a minute as we walked the horses back the lane. Fresh air is happy gas to Marley but to me it just smells funny. I like my air like I liked my wine, full-bodied. My lungs need a little more ozone, a little cigarette smoke mingled with the smell of stale beer, to work properly.
    The joy that had come back into Marley the night before was even more pronounced this morning and her enthusiasm for everything around her knew no bounds. I wanted to strangle her but I was too busy watching Joey’s ears. Apparently they were supposed to tell me when he planned on dumping me.
    The day was pleasantly warm, unlike the unbearable heat we’d been experiencing, and there weren’t even any bugs. Joey was behaving like a prince. That should have warned me things were about to turn to rat shit.
    I pointed ahead of me and off to the left of the trail, to a small black sow with five little piglets trotting behind her. “Look.”
    Joey, who was even less trusting of nature than I was, danced sideways while keeping his eye on the sow. I patted his neck, trying to soothe him and watched his ears.
    The sow and her family disappeared into the underbrush and Joey decided to walk on, tossing his head in indignation.
    Things went along glowingly for another ten minutes. Joey and I were getting along faultlessly, forming a partnership and bonding when I saw what looked like the branch of a tree across the path. The log moved. “That can’t be right,” my brain was saying. “Logs don’t move.”

CHAPTER 14
    Seven feet long, or maybe even over eight feet, Joey and I didn’t stop to measure it, the snake slithered across the trail in front of us. Joey jumped. Like an Olympic champion, he stretched out and sailed high in the air, clearing the reptile by at least his own height.
    At lift-off I grabbed for his mane, the horn, anything that would keep me onboard. When he touched down I was thrown forward, nearly catapulting over his head. I lost my right stirrup.
    I’d lost the reins in my grab for the horn and now the stupid horse was off for the next county. Going like spit and cutting in too close on the corners, branches were slapping me. I forgot all those good things I’d been told, like keeping my heels down so my foot wouldn’t go through the stirrup and get me dragged behind Joey when I fell off, and I was going to fall off, no doubt about it. It was just a matter of time and finding a spot to land.
    I was curling into a smaller and smaller ball, like a little burr, just trying to stay with him. I suppose if he’d been a racehorse this would have encouraged him to go faster but Joey didn’t seem to need any encouragement.
    And then he suddenly stopped. I listed to the right and, in a losing battle with gravity, slowly slid off. When I hit the ground I started to curse the stupid, brain dead, ugly walking piece of carrion called Joey.
    Marley sat there, arms folded on the horn of her saddle, not at all concerned for my wellbeing, and grinned down at me.
    â€œI could be hurt,” I screamed at her.
    â€œNo pain, no gain.”
    I got off my ass and climbed back on Joey, too mad to be afraid. Fear would come later. It often does with me.
    â€œWhat the shit was that?” I asked. “Was it a snake?” Joey was now only interested in cropping grass
    â€œAn Eastern Indigo, they’re rare,” Marley said.
    â€œThank God for that.”
    Marley, a nature lover who went on hikes and even raised money to save this