She held her hands up. “Sorry. Hey, really, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I get like this. It was just seeing Cordie June so . . . at home in my kitchen. The kitchen where I raised my kids—where me and Dewey . . .” Her voice cracked; her eyes looked as miserable as a sick calf’s.
I stubbornly fought the pity that started creeping into my heart. It couldn’t be easy what she’d gone through these last couple of years, losing her daughter, her husband, and even the small comfort of everything being in the same place in the home that held so many memories. Who’s to say I wouldn’t be just as prickly and suspicious if I’d experienced what she had?
“Before you go to making up your mind about someone too fast, try to imagine yourself pullin’ their boots on every morning,” Dove had always told us kids. “You’ll understand them better, and maybe the pinches in your own boots won’t hurt as much.”
“It’s okay,” I said to Belinda. “Let’s just forget it and go eat. That steak is beginning to smell awfully good.”
She hung her head and said in a low voice, “I need to cool down more before I see . . . that woman again. I’m going to grain some of the horses. You want to come with me?” Her face held a question, almost a plea, for acceptance.
I wanted to say no. Chances were she’d pop off again, but the alternative was going back and helping Cordie June. And, hearing Dove’s voice in my head, it would be the forgiving thing to do.
“Do you mind me asking something personal?” I asked as we walked through one of the barns, giving grain to some horses who’d been sick recently and needed the extra nutrition.
“Depends,” she said.
“Why does Dewey live in the house when you’re out here more?”
She shrugged. “It was part of the divorce settlement. At the time, I didn’t want to live in this place where all those memories were of him and me and Chet and especially DeeDee.” Her voice sparked with bitterness. “He can forget things easier than me, I guess. The place didn’t seem to make him feel bad. So he took out a second mortgage and paid me off. I bought a small house in Derby, close to my parents. But now that time has passed, I wish I’d fought for the house. Especially since he started bringing women here. I don’t know why I let Cordie June rattle me. She’s not the first cheap tramp in his life and certainly won’t be the last.” She tapped her nails against the bucket of grain she carried. A pale buckskin moved out of the shadowed corner of his stall and stuck his head over the door. “No grain for you, Coley, but here’s a goodie.” She pulled a carrot out of her pocket and fed it to him. Her eyes grew shiny. “Sometimes I just miss our old life so much. If DeeDee hadn’t . . . if I’d just . . .” She dumped the remaining grain in the last stall. A sharp-ribbed bay moseyed over to the trough. “Like I said, I should have stayed in the house and made
him
leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She brushed off my sympathy with a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well, as they say, hindsight and all that.”
We walked up to Apache’s stall. He stuck his head over the metal door, and I patted the side of his neck while she fed him a carrot. “Ever ride him?” I asked.
“Sure. Dewey doesn’t know it, though. He can be such a tightass sometimes.” Her eyes shifted sideways and gave me a shrewd look. “Want to try him out?”
Instinctively, I looked behind me. “I don’t know . . . Dewey said . . .”
“Forget Dewey,” she said. “But if you think you can’t handle him—”
“That’s not it,” I said sharply. “I just don’t believe in riding someone’s horse without their permission.”
She smirked at me. “Honey, I own half this stable, and that includes all the critters in it. So
I’m
giving you permission.”
“Then let’s go.”
I followed her to a smaller tack room at the back of the barn. She pulled a soft maroon-colored bareback pad off a saddle rack and handed it to me. “He’s not broke to Western saddle yet. He can get a little frisky. That okay with you?”
“No problem,” I said.
Apache blew air and jerked his head high when Belinda haltered him. She led him into the breezeway to cross-tie him. I threw the pad over his back and buckled it.
“Better use this.” Half smiling, she handed me a shiny D-ring snaffle bit. He fought me as I tried to slip it into his mouth, jerking his head away sharply, like a child avoiding bitter-tasting medicine. Apparently he’d decided he liked standing in his stall and doing nothing but processing alfalfa.
Belinda stepped to the side, her hands stuck in her back pockets. “Need any help?” she asked, her slightly mocking tone back in place.
“Nope.” Finally he took the bit. I pulled the reins over his head, suddenly feeling uneasy. “You can see the arena from the front yard. Dewey will come barreling out the minute we walk Apache in.”
“We’ve got another arena out back of the old barn,” she said. “He’ll never see us out there.”
Leading the skittish horse, I followed her out the back of the breezeway toward an ancient, ramshackle barn. Behind it was a split-wood corral that must have been built around the same time as the barn. The gate hung crookedly by one rusty hinge. I opened it carefully and led Apache to the center of the ring.
“He’s pretty big.” She laced her fingers. “I’ll give you a leg up.”
Apache balked at the pressure of me on his back, jumping around while I struggled for control. Irritably he whipped his long tail up and struck me on the shoulder. It was clear he was still not ready to become a cooperative working partner with a human being. I wondered just how long it had been since he was last ridden.
“Maybe you should tie the reins,” she called, moving back behind the corral’s fence away from us.
I shook my head and scowled. It was a deliberate barb meant to make me mad, and it worked. Only kids and beginners tied their reins as a precaution against losing them. Apache arched his head and pawed the ground angrily. I pulled back hard. He blew another angry breath. Unlike Sinful, who had eventually settled down after his initial fight for control, Apache, reminding me a lot of a certain police chief, wasn’t about to let anyone tell him what to do. In the next few minutes, using everything I’d ever been taught about breaking horses, I managed to make him walk around the ring. Belinda’s eyes were glued on me the whole time, waiting for me to make a mistake. More than once, Apache slammed me against the splintery boards of the corral, trying to push me off. After his first attempt to dislodge me, I switched directions so that my injured side wouldn’t get bruises on top of bruises. After about fifteen minutes, he seemed controlled enough for me to try a jog. I clucked and he immediately responded, though I never got secure enough to loosen the reins. I was beginning to enjoy his strength and spirited personality and turned to say so to Belinda, when a brown-striped squirrel scampered down a crooked box elder next to the corral and ran across the ring in front of us. The sudden movement broke my precarious control, and Apache reared up slightly, trying to shy away from the chattering squirrel.
“Whoa,” I crooned. “Easy now . . .”
“Watch it!” I heard Belinda yell. “Don’t lose the—”
Just as she said it, he reared up on his back legs, and the reins flew out of my hands. Instinctively I grabbed his mane. I held on as he started darting back and forth across the arena, reins dragging on the ground, the squirrel forgotten, but his adrenaline pumping enough now that he couldn’t stop. He rammed me against the fence. I felt the soft saddle start to slip, and I gripped hard with my thighs, trying to keep a seat.
“Grab him!” another, deeper voice yelled out over Belinda’s. Out of the corner of my eye I saw in a blur Dewey’s angry face, the cowboy hats of Chet and his friends, and the shocked face of my husband.
Then I hit the ground. Pain shot through my already battered body like a jolt of lightning. I bit down hard, my teeth slamming against each other. Like I’d been taught in childhood, I ignored the pain and rolled away, forcing myself to scramble under the fence to safety. Gabe was there before I could stand up, pulling me up and cursing vehemently in Spanish.
“I’m okay,” I said, leaning my head against his chest, breathing deep and hard. “Just a little weak. I’m all right.” I swallowed, and the salty taste of blood flowed down the back of my throat.
Across the arena, a commotion caused us both to turn and stare.
“Are you out of your mind?” Dewey screamed at Belinda. “She could have been killed. You know he’s too dangerous to ride. How could you do something so absolutely stupid?” Her broad shoulders slumped, and she seemed to shrink inches under his harsh words. “You’re so all-fire bent on screwing things up for me, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” He gripped both her shoulders.
“Gabe, do something,” I whispered, digging my nails into his forearm.
“Wait,” he answered in a low voice. “This is between them. I’ll step in if it looks like he’s losing control.”
“What were you thinking?” Dewey demanded, shaking Belinda slightly. That did it for Gabe, but before he could step in, Chet ran over and grabbed his dad’s forearm. Dewey shook it off and snapped at his son, “This is between your mother and me. Go get Apache and put him up.” Chet’s face flushed angrily, but he did what Dewey said without a word.
“Hey, y’all,” Cordie June called out, walking around the barn. “What’s going on out here? I turned around, and everyone was gone.” She looked at Belinda and Dewey, at the horse that Chet and his friends were still trying to round up, and at Gabe and me. “Is everything okay?” She cocked her hip and gave a flirty smile.
“Fine, Cordie June,” Dewey said. Belinda jerked away from his grasp. “You get on back to the house and check the barbecue. We’ll all be there in a minute.” He turned back to Belinda. “We’ll talk about this later.”
She sputtered, her face white with anger. “Who do you think you are, Dewey Champagne? I own half this stable. I have just as much right—” His savage look stopped her words. She swung around and headed for the horse barns, cursing loudly. Chet handed Apache’s reins to one of his friends, and after shooting his dad a black look, ran after his mother.
Dewey walked over to Gabe and me. “You okay?” he asked, his face amiable again.
“Yes,” I said, brushing the dirt off my pant leg. “Look, it was just as much my fault as Belinda’s.”
“No, it wasn’t. She knows how Apache is and she let you ride him anyway.”
“I chose to ride him,” I insisted. “I think you’re being too hard on her. I think—” Gabe squeezed my shoulder firmly.
“This is not up for discussion,” Dewey said bluntly. “Why don’t you go in and get washed up. The food’s probably ready.” He turned and walked toward the house, his boots kicking up a small dirt cloud behind him.
I shrugged Gabe’s hand off. “What was that all about? I think he’s being a real jerk. Did you see how he was yelling at Belinda?”
“He’s right,” Gabe said. “She knew exactly what to expect from that horse, so she shouldn’t have allowed you to ride him. And you should have known better yourself. You could have broken your neck.”
“I knew what I was doing,” I said. “He’s not the first horse who’s bucked me off and he more than likely won’t be the last. Belinda had nothing to do with that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. What were you thinking, trying to ride a green horse like that? Dewey told you he didn’t want you riding him.”
“I had to.”
“What?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
I exhaled sharply. “She made me feel like I
couldn’t
do it. Like I wasn’t capable of handling a horse like Apache.”
He gave me an astonished look. “Let me get this straight. You did it because she
dared
you? Am I talking to a mature woman here, or a teenager?”
“She didn’t . . .” But he was right. She did dare me, and I took the dare. I looked away, chewing on the corner of my lip, feeling heat rise up the back of my neck. “How do you always manage to make me feel like I’m the kid and you’re the parent?”
“
Niña
, it isn’t as difficult as it sounds.”
“Very funny.” I smacked him in the stomach, which only made him laugh. Then his face turned sober again, and he rested his hands on my shoulders, massaging them gently.
“Benni, let’s get serious here. I don’t like the way this came down. I told you that you need to be careful with everyone involved. That means sometimes backing down when you don’t want to. There’s more honor in that than forging ahead and getting yourself hurt or killed.”
“I know,” I said, tilting my head back and relaxing under his gentle hands. “I’ll think twice before I do anything from now on. I promise.”
He bent and kissed me. “Good. Now, let’s get you cleaned up and get something to eat.”
Belinda had taken one of the stable’s trucks and left before Gabe and I returned. No one mentioned the incident with Apache during lunch, but an uneasiness swirled through the festivities. Chet kept shooting his father angry side looks, which Dewey ignored. Later that afternoon, when everyone had gone inside to watch Chet’s rodeo videos again, I excused myself and retreated to a wooden lawn chair under a thick shady ash next to the house. I watched a red-tailed hawk ride the air currents over the grassy meadow next to Dewey’s property. The air felt warm and heavy on my arms. In the distance, through the glistening heat, I could see grain silos, tall and silvery-white, and it occurred to me for the first time that they were probably the inspiration for Frank L. Baum’s Emerald City. The screen door opened, and Dewey stepped out on the porch. He strode across the lawn to join me.
“You feeling okay, short stuff?” he asked, his brown eyes concerned.
I smiled and lifted the damp hair off the back of my neck. “Dewey, I grew up on a ranch. I’ve had wrecks before and I’ve made it thirty-five years without experiencing any major plaster yet. I’m fine.”
“Then you know it was real stupid of you to ride that stud,” he said, perching on the handle of my chair and resting his arm behind me. “I told you—”