Taming the Star Runner (9 page)

“On course, Casey Kencaide on Secret Sam.”

All the horses had barn names, what everyone called them at home, and show names, that they went by at shows. Travis thought it was kind of goofy. Secret Sam was called Stinker at home.

Casey made a large warm-up circle, trotting the bay around several of the jumps. A lazy, almost deadhead horse on the flat, Stinker got nervous jumping, and Travis realized Casey was letting him get a look at the jumps. She put him into an easy canter for the first line, got him back under control as he tried to run away after the second—he spooked out at the red brick wall, but Casey made him come back and drove him over it to finish the course.

There was a smattering of applause from the stands, but as Casey left the ring she looked back to the stands to her mother and smiled.

“That's my gal,” Mrs. Kencaide said. “I knew I had me a lion cub right from the start.”

Travis had a sudden bite of envy, mixed with homesickness, mixed with missing his own mom and being disgusted with himself for it. He left the stands hastily.

So why does
she
have to be the only kid I know who
likes
a parent? he thought sourly as he took Stinker's reins.

“Cool him off a little before you untack him,” Casey said.

She was the first person he'd seen coming out of the arena breathing normally.

“I'd have whacked him one for running out like that,” he said.

“He hasn't jumped enough to know if he likes it. I want him to like it. I hope Amber's in the schooling ring.”

Casey ran off and Travis ran the stirrups up the stirrup straps so they wouldn't flap around.

“I'll cool him off for you.” It was Kelsey.

“No, it's my job,” Travis snapped at her. He was vaguely aware that Kelsey had a crush on him, just as he realized the mild commotion he was causing at the show. Males were few and far between in this sport. But he was so sick of girls. Just one night, just one night of cruising with his old buddies and tossing down a few beers and talking,
really
talking…

Something grabbed him around the leg. The first thing that flashed across his mind was a sex-crazed dog—it was Christopher.

“Hey,” he said, “don't scare the horse.”

“You wouldn't say hi.” Christopher looked up at him with Teresa's dark eyes. “We said hi.”

“Geez, kid, you do live in outer space half the time, don't you?”

Travis realized that Ken was standing right in front of him, trying to get his attention.

“What's up?” he said finally.

“We've been to get haircuts.”

It shows, Travis thought. A haircut shouldn't look, well, new like that. For a panicked second he wondered where he'd go around here—surely there was a SuperCuts somewhere…

“And your mom called. She's been trying to tell you she'll sign the contracts after all. She wants you to call her later.”

“Oh.” So he'd won! Beat ol' Stan out on this one! “Great.”

“Whooee.” Another guy about Ken's age came up to them, holding a little girl by the hand. He was staring around at the riders. “This is paradise.”

Dirty old geezer, Travis thought.

“This is my friend Steve Slade,” Ken said. “My nephew, Travis.”

“The famous writer?” Steve said, shaking his hand. Travis looked at Ken, who shrugged.

“So I bragged a little.”

Travis felt like laughing out loud. Everything suddenly looked brighter. “What's up?”

“We bachelor dads are going to go eat pizza and watch football and let the kids kill each other.”

Travis had a second of longing to go with them … Geez, just to be around some
guys
—

“Daddy,” the little girl said suddenly, “I want a pony.”

“Sure, honey,” Steve said. “We'll see.”

“I
must
have a pony,” she insisted. Ken and Steve laughed.

Travis watched her watching the ponies, and knew Steve had nothing to laugh about.

“So, you gonna sign the contracts?”

He didn't mean to sound so sharp—the day at the horse show had just about done him in. He'd missed Casey's hunter round on the Star Runner (there seemed to be some big difference between “hunter” and “jumper” classes, but he hadn't figured out what) because he was rushing around helping Amber tack up—and it turned out to be the wrong class anyway.

And the Star Runner had slammed on the brakes at a four-foot wall and Casey went over his head to land on it. Travis was convinced she had broken some ribs, but she refused to go to the emergency room and had actually laughed when he suggested not riding tomorrow.

So even though he was glad to talk to Mom, and excited about the contracts, it was hard to get his mind off the show. It was like his mind had turned into a seesaw, sometimes the book was the high part and everything else disappeared, sometimes it was Casey and these goddamn horses, and sometimes it raced up and down till he was dizzy.

“Yes, I am, hon. You were right, the book is something you did on your own—”

“How's Stan takin' this?” he asked suddenly. “He's not beatin' up on you?”

“Oh, no, hon, Stan's never beat up on me. Travis, where'd you get such an idea?”

Are you nuts? he wanted to shout, but instead said, “Must be my vivid writer's imagination.”

“Honey, you know except for those two times when he was unemployed and I was naggin' him, Stan's never hit me.”

Travis didn't say anything and she added, “And if you'd been halfway nice to him you wouldn't have gotten hit either.”

She sounded like she was crying. Travis rolled his eyes. This'd teach him to call home.

“Hey”—he changed the subject—“how's Joe doin'?”

“I don't know, he hasn't been around lately.” She sniffled. “How's the cat?”

The cat. Travis suddenly realized Motorboat hadn't been around much lately either.

“He's in the barn a lot, there's mice out there.”

Motorboat, in fact, had become obsessed with the mice, and Travis couldn't get his attention. And the cat had sort of fallen in love with Silver Hawk, leaping from the gate to his back, where he huddled and did happy paws, purring like an electric drill. He sat in the pony's food box while it ate, and rolled in the dirt in front of the jumps when Molly rode, apparently never dreaming he could be trampled.

And now Travis realized he'd been so preoccupied himself he hadn't really cared.

“Well, I'm glad he's earning his keep.”

“Hey,” Travis said hotly, “I'm workin' now, I'm giving Ken some board money.”

“Honey, I didn't mean…”

Suddenly he was ashamed of himself. Mom
had
stood up to Stan. She probably
had
been goofy about him when he was little, the way Ken and Teresa were about Chris.

“Listen. Thanks a lot, okay?”

“Hon…”

“I gotta go. I'll tell Ms. Carmichael to send you the contracts. Bye.”

The book. The book. He was going to get his book published!

He lay in his bed, too tired to sleep, too excited about the book again, too worried about Casey, who was supposed to ride the Star Runner in the jumper classes tomorrow.

He turned some Springsteen music on, low. Suddenly, and savagely, he missed his cat.

​He found out the difference between hunters and jumpers. Hunters were judged on form, smoothness, correct striding. Jumpers were judged on two things: getting over the jump and speed.

You didn't have to be real bright to figure out which was the most dangerous.

The jumper classes were the first ones the next morning. There were only seven riders entered; six of them were professional trainers. After the huge hunter classes of the day before—Jennifer's classes contained thirty riders—this seemed ominous to Travis. There weren't many who were good enough, or brave enough, to try this.

By seven he had fed, watered, and cleaned most of the stalls. He wandered over to the arena to watch the jump crew set up the course and got drafted into helping. He dragged poles around while distances and heights were measured and argued over.

These suckers were high. It was a funny thing, too, that when you were on a horse, the jumps seemed higher than when you were on the ground. He'd noticed that back at the barn, when Jennifer and Kelsey had talked him into riding—at a walk—around the arena. It amazed him how much bigger they seemed from a horse. He'd been scared the whole time he was riding that the horse would decide, suddenly and without warning, to jump.

“Casey riding this morning?” one of the jump crew asked. The crew were mostly fathers of the riders. “I heard she took a bad spill yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Travis said. “She's riding.”

“That gray horse she's got, he's a mean one.”

“Yeah, but if she ever gets him settled he'll be hard to beat,” said someone else.

“He is a good-looking animal.”

“I like that bay Jessie's got. Pretty
and
sane.”

“Well, you know it was that jughead roan of Pete Wheeler's that won this class in the last show. Looks don't count here.”

After the course was set, Travis went back to the stalls. The barn was relatively quiet—the show had lasted late last night and few people showed up to watch the first two classes. Casey had the Star Runner tied securely in the aisle, wiping him off with a polishing cloth. Braided, groomed, polished, his coat shining like heavy silver-gray silk, the Star Runner stood motionless, his dark eyes fixed on something only he could see. Parallel universe, thought Travis, suddenly remembering a term from his sci-fi stage. It was like the Star Runner's body was in one dimension and his mind in another.

Maybe he
was
an alien being, Travis thought, half joking, half not. After all, nobody said aliens
couldn't
be horses. Maybe that was why everyone was uneasy around him, why such a beautiful animal gave people the creeps…

“Hey, kid.” Casey tossed her cloth onto a lawn chair set up outside the tack stall. “Could you get me my saddle?”

“My name is Travis, not kid,” he said, ticked off once too often by the way she referred to him. Two friggin' years difference in their age—it wasn't like she was old enough to be his mother.

“Sorry about that.” She didn't sound sorry; but it wasn't until he was tightening the girth that he realized this was the first time she'd had anyone tack up for her.

“I bet you couldn't pick up your saddle,” he accused her. “You did break some ribs yesterday.”

She shrugged. “Naw, I just thought I'd get my money's worth out of you.”

She checked the girth herself before she put on the bridle. Travis held the Star Runner, who was beginning to stamp and paw, while Casey changed from her navy-blue sweat jacket to her charcoal-gray riding coat, applied her lipstick quickly, without a mirror, and tucked her hair into her velvet hard-hat.

“Leg up, please.” She stood beside the saddle and bent one leg back.

“You never needed a leg up before,” he said, grabbing her boot and shoving her up. She could always jump straight up and catch the stirrup—Travis thought that was probably left over from her western riding days. He could picture that, Casey being a cowgirl. He could picture that real well.

“Stop being such a little mother-hen.” She tapped him lightly on the head with her crop as she nudged the Star Runner into a walk.

“Get Sandman brushed,” she called over her shoulder. “Jennifer's in the first flat class, and you know her.”

The hell I will, Travis thought, and ran over to the schooling ring.

Casey walked the Star Runner around the ring twice in each direction, trotted him twice, cantered him collectedly in small circles.

“Boy, she's got him going well on the flat,” said one of the girls watching from the bleachers. “Now if she could just keep him from going crazy jumping.”

“Jesse says he'll never make a good jumper because he never listens in the ring.”

Travis knew she meant “pays attention.” Oh, yeah, he thought. If he doesn't listen Casey'll just yell louder.

The Star Runner was snorting and blowing, almost panting, in rhythm with his strides. Casey put him over the practice jump once from either direction, then trotted out of the ring.

“Hey”—Travis ran up beside her where she stood by the entry gate—“is that all the warm-up you're going to do?”

Casey was looking at the course. “I thought I told you to groom Sandman.”

“So fire me. Don't you need to school some more?” He moved over to miss the Star Runner's dancing hooves.

Casey's face was glowing. She was like a girl with the best date for the prom.

“Oh, I thought I'd surprise him a little this time. Open the gate for me, would you, ki—Travis?”

First one on the course, Travis thought wildly, swinging the gate open, doesn't even get to see how the jumps ride, damn her, and everybody thinks it's just the horse who's crazy.

“On course, the Star Runner, ridden by Casey Kencaide.”

Travis wondered if she hadn't schooled more because it hurt too badly, and something about the way she sat up after the first jump convinced him he was right. Should have at least taped her ribs—the Star Runner threw a bucking fit in the corner, Casey got his head up and absolutely charged him at a five-foot vertical—he cleared it by a foot and the small crowd in the stands gasped. The next jump was a four-foot-high oxer with a four-foot spread; the Star Runner flattened out like a leaping cat to clear it. He shot up and down like a pogo stick through the final triple, and Casey had to make two finishing circles to get him back down to a trot.

Travis raced around to the exit gate, and it wasn't until he heard her laugh and say, “Well, we know it's jumpable,” that he even thought about the fact that she'd gone clear—and if anyone else went clear she'd have to do it again, for speed.

“Well,” he said. She winced a little as she slid off.

“Well what?” She was panting, like it hurt to breathe. “Here, cool him off a little while I watch the next couple of rounds.”

“I'm going to get a nurse or something.” He knew there was one around here somewhere.

“No,” she said, “you're not.”

She walked into a small cloud of congratulations around the entry gate, and Travis watched her until a sharp pain in his arm made him jump.

Goddamn horse had bitten him.

And it made Travis madder to realize he was afraid to retaliate, afraid to whack him across the nose with the reins like he would any other horse.

“Come on.” He jerked the reins, careful not to get too close. His arm smarted from the bite—his leather jacket was all that had saved him from having a hunk of flesh ripped off. He walked the Star Runner up and down, listening to the cheers and groans of the crowd, as riders went clear or had a rail down.

More and more people were arriving, the place was filling up with screeching girls and harried mothers again.

“Travis! Travis!”

Jennifer and Kelsey came running up. “How'd Casey do?”

“She went clear.”

They grabbed each other and jumped up and down, squealing like a couple of morons.

“Have they started the jump-off yet?”

“No, I think that's the last horse now.”

And from the cheering it was another clear round.

“You better get tacked up,” he said to Jennifer. She couldn't afford for Casey to get any madder—skipping last night's medal class in favor of piano recital had really ticked her off.

“I'm done!” Jennifer boasted. “He's clean and tacked and I'm dressed and ready.”

“Oh,” Kelsey said, giggling, “you're bleeding.”

Travis looked down at his hand, not too surprised to see blood trickling out of his sleeve.

“I got bit.”

“Boy, Casey
is
a grouch at the shows,” Kelsey teased. Travis scowled at her. Some things weren't funny anymore.

Suddenly Casey was there, running the stirrups down.

“How many clear?”

“Three of us.”

“When do you go?”

“First.”

“Oh, Casey, no,” Jennifer wailed.

Casey laughed. “Watch.”

Travis boosted her up, and she trotted toward the schooling ring. She turned suddenly. “Jennifer, if you're late…”

The three of them ran to the stands to get a good place to watch.

“What's wrong with being first?” Travis asked. He was glad she was first, glad to get it over with.

“Oh, everything. You really have to go for time, since you don't know how anyone else will do—you don't get to watch anyone. Sometimes the last rider knows all she has to do is go clear—first, and you have to be clear
and
fast.”

Travis stared unseeingly at the jump crew taking down the top rails of some of the jumps, raising some of the others. The jump-off course was shorter, tighter, higher.

“You know, I think she broke some ribs yesterday.”

“That's nothing,” said Kelsey. “Two years ago she rode all day with one arm in a cast and was reserve champion.”

“The Star Runner, on course.”

The Star Runner trotted sideways into the ring, Casey holding him together like a coiled spring. Then the time buzzer sounded and the Star Runner shot forward like the head of a striking snake.

It was wrong, all wrong. Travis had been watching this stuff for weeks and nobody could jump at this speed, the horse would run right through the fences. Nobody could make those turns, pivoting two strides in front of the jumps, turning in midair like a cat, changing direction like a slammed tennis ball without slowing—

Casey, with the first visible effort Travis could catch, swung the Star Runner around just in time to keep him from jumping the exit gate.

She was through, it was over, and they hadn't touched a rail.

The crowd was frozen. Then Kelsey yelled, “Yea, Casey!” and a blast of applause boomed across the ring. Usually each barn cheered its own riders—this was the first time Travis had seen everyone in the stands on their feet clapping.

“Time for the Star Runner: nineteen point nine seven seconds.”

Behind Travis a voice said, “That will teach me to ride against an ex-barrel racer.”

Travis turned around, and the two remaining riders, a man in his early thirties, and a girl on a horse rumored to cost fifty thousand dollars, sat shaking their heads.

“Well, I'm going to save my neck, my horse, and my insurance,” said the man. He did the course in twenty-six seconds with one rail down. The girl made an effort—you could see it really amazed her to hear her time of twenty-three seconds. It wasn't until after her round that Travis realized he'd been gripping the arena rail so hard his hands were going numb.

“First place goes to the Star Runner, owned and ridden by Casey Kencaide,” said the loudspeaker. Casey, on foot, trotted the Star Runner into the arena to pick up the ribbon and silver trophy. She took her prizes with a remote smile—a king of a conquering army accepting baubles, still reliving the battle.

Travis joined in the clapping, moving like a sleepwalker to the exit gate with the chattering girls.

“Casey, that was wonderful!”

“Congratulations!”

“Great, great ride!”

“Thanks.” She smiled back at every compliment.

“Let me cool him off,” begged Kelsey. Casey handed her the reins and she walked off with the gray as proudly as a groupie with a rock star.

“Go get Sandman warmed up while I change,” Casey said to Jennifer. Travis held the ribbon and trophy while she pulled off her helmet. The hairnet went with it, and her hair, shining gold-on-brown, tumbled down her back. “Hurry.”

Jennifer ran off. Travis followed Casey into the curtained tack stall, and after she'd shrugged out of her jacket he pinned her against the wall and kissed her. He had never said “I love you” to anyone in his life, but he was saying it now.

When he released her, she was staring into his eyes. Calmly. Not angry, not even halfway surprised.

“So what's all this about?”

“You know,” he said, suddenly convinced she did know. There
was
something between them. Her upper arms in his hands were strong and warm; he desperately wanted all of her. Strong and warm and unafraid…

Something like the polite mask she wore for the parents slid over her face.

“Jennifer's a sweet girl. I think she could schedule in a boyfriend.”

“Don't,” Travis said. It would kill him if she hid from him now. He was terrified that he'd blown everything. “You tell me there's nothing between us,” he challenged.

“Okay,” Casey said, “I like you. You're … brave.”

“I killed the snake,” Travis said, almost absently. She liked him. He hadn't even been convinced of that, only that there was this strange tie, bond, fate, between them.

“Snake, hell. Anyone could do that. You came down to the barn and helped me clean up that mess you made, when I never expected to see you again. You haven't been afraid to ask when you don't know things … I like you a lot.” She paused. “All day long people are asking me ‘how?' and you come along, knowing why.”