“I don’t know. Tall ones with skinny leaves.”
“Are the leaves kind of gray green, and do they curve to a point in one direction?
“Yes.”
“Then they’re eucalyptus. If you crunch some of the leaves in your hand, they have a musky smell. Not as strong as sagebrush, though. Alice used to string the pods together to make garlands for our Christmas tree. What’s on the left?”
“A rail fence around a ranch.”
“Let’s go left after the end of it up into those mountains.” He trusted his memory about the shape of the valley, and he knew the children trusted him.
They rode a long way, talking of what they saw—a big, frog-shaped rock, a dead sycamore—singing Gene Autry songs when they walked their horses, galloping where they could, climbing higher and higher up the valley wall, filling themselves with the liberty of a long spring day. The afternoon cooled pleasantly in the higher foothills and a breeze gathered momentum.
“Okay, time to switch.” The children jumped down, tussled a little as they changed places, scrambled on again, and they headed back. Forrie’s narrow shoulders were higher than Faith’s. “You’re getting taller every time we ride,” Forrest said. “Pretty soon I won’t be able to see over your shoulder.”
“Aw, Pop, quit teasing.” Forrie became quieter and quieter as they rode. A little whimper escaped.
“Pop?”
“Yup.”
“I don’t know where we are.”
Forrest reined in Mort. “Faithy, do you?” He waited.
“No.”
The realization descended with quiet force. “Look around you. Look behind you. Do you see anything we passed?”
“Nope.”
“Look where the sun is. Feel where the breeze is coming from.”
“It’s coming from all around,” Faith whined.
“Do you see any trees you saw before? Any fences?”
“We’re lost,” Forrie said, and slumped against Forrest’s chest.
“Then, we’re going to just sit here on our horses and pray until we know the way.”
He said it with finality so that the children wouldn’t question. They didn’t say a word. Honeybunch sneezed. A crow cawed somewhere off to the left. Mort changed his weight and the saddle creaked. Forrest kept his head straight, his chin slightly upward, his shoulders back. They mustn’t see him afraid. If they so much as wondered if he was, they’d crumble into whimpers. He stiffened against the naked judgment calling out from the mountains that he who pushed against the reins that bound him had stepped beyond his limits. Limits were for limited minds, for people who clutched their limitations to them like coats of arms on a shield. He blinked away a fly.
Okay, so pray, he told himself. It was good just to be there, to smell the sage, feel his children against him, and have the freedom of movement that horses allowed him. In accordance with his credo of gratitude, he went over in his mind all the good things in their life, and felt thankful for their source. Forrie began tracing the stitching on the leather pommel with his fingers. It was distracting. Forrest gently put his big hand on top of the smaller one.
They sat on their horses on the side of the mountain for a long time with the sun glancing lower. No one said anything. All right, he thought. I’ll go through it again. It’s good to be here. I’m thankful for sun on my neck. I’m thankful for family. I’m thankful God gave them good minds, good eyes, good memories. I’m thankful for—
“I think it’s this way.” Faith’s voice was a tiny squeak. He had to trust her. They headed off slowly, Faith leading.
“There’s the frog rock,” Faith yelled back. Forrest felt his son sit up straighter, sign of a hairline crack in the wall of anxiety that surrounded them.
“And the dead tree,” Forrie added after a while.
The crack grew. “You know where you are now?”
“Yeah. Those are the fence posts we followed.” Against his chest Forrest felt Forrie take a big breath and let it out in a gush. The wall collapsed. Forrest clucked at Mort, and he moved into a trot. The children began to talk and laugh.
“I think I’m going to have Honeybunch bred,” Forrest said after they had gotten to more familiar ground. “Then we can have a colt.”
“Yippee! Another horse to ride.”
“Yup. Won’t that be dandy?” When they got to The Eighty Acres, Forrest said, “Come on, let’s let ’em loose.” He spurred Mort, then Faith did the same to Honeybunch. Both horses took off at a gallop. “Faith, is that you I hear flapping against the saddle? You must be bigger than I thought.”
“Po-op,” she wailed in protest, the word bouncing into two syllables. He knew that even this teasing was permissible now that they knew their way.
“Flapsaddle, that’s what we’ll call you. Mrs. Flapsaddle.”
Forrie squealed. “Flappy. Flappy.”
“Pop, make him sto-op.” Faith spurred Honeybunch again in an effort to get ahead, out of range of hearing, but Mort, knowing well his rider’s habit, kept close, and they galloped back to the ranch in a wild burst of energy.
Maybe they won’t tell Jean, Forrest thought.
Chapter Thirty-one
Honeybunch foaled the following spring. She had a sprightly paint filly, healthy and perky. They named her Skippy. When she was old enough, Forrest gentled her, and the children curried, brushed and petted her. More and more, Faith and Forrie spent their time in and around the corral, the barn, Indian Rock and sometimes Eighty Acres.
“Watch out for Hap,” Jean would always say when the older ones went to ride. She couldn’t keep a four-year-old from going around the ranch, but at least they could have rules—Forrest saw to that—rules like closing the barn door so Hap couldn’t get in, and the corral gate so the horses couldn’t get out, always putting curry combs in the same place so Forrest could find them, and keeping up the water level in the corral trough.
One Saturday in late September, Forrie went into the barn and came out, his arms loaded with a shovel, pick, hammer, some warped old boards and two-by-fours, his pocket bulging with nails, items of play for his project, to expand his fort under the pepper trees. He dragged his feet in the dirt. It was one of those glaring hot days when searing Santa Ana winds swooped down the valley from the east and enlivened the tumbleweeds. Forrie busied himself for hours, studying the lengths and shapes of the available boards, engineering and then erecting a new roofline to give maximum shade so that the flat, broad roof of his fort could double as a raft if he pretended the dry ditch surrounding it was a muddy river.
The day lazed on, quieted by the dry heat. Billy wandered aimlessly, picked up some gravel from the breezeway between the kitchen and garage, and ambled out to the pasture to throw the pebbles at tin cans placed on fence posts. Hap played in the cooler dirt in the shade of the water trough. The faucet dripped so that the motion of the water rippled the moss clinging to the edges and the plopping sound of water drops lessened the oppressive heat. He poked his head down close to the water level and watched the bugs landing on the moss.
When the first hints of a cooling-off came in the afternoon and the air lost some of its heat, Faith went into the corral to saddle up for a ride. Honeybunch hung her head listlessly. She stood without moving when Faith climbed the rail fence and slung the child-sized saddle on her back, but when Faith jumped down again to cinch in the strap, Honey balked.
“Come on, Honey,” Faith crooned the way her father had taught her. “Let’s try it again.” The second time, Honeybunch permitted the cinching of the strap. Faith climbed the rail fence again and got on. Honey’s legs faltered a little under the child’s weight.
“Let’s go.” Faith clucked at her in the usual way, but Honey just stood there, blinking away flies, her head lowered. Faith flicked the reins. “Come on. Come on,” she urged. She dug in her heels. Honey shifted weight. Faith kicked harder. “Get going.” Honey didn’t move. Faith waited. A dry gust blew some grit in her eye and she blinked away tears.
“Come on, Honeybunch.” Her voice had the irritation of childhood impatience. She kicked three or four times, hard. Honeybunch staggered, going down on her front legs, then twitched violently so that she righted herself. Faith slid out of the saddle in a panic, flung the gate closed and raced toward the house.
“Pop, Pop, something’s wrong with Honeybunch,” she screamed.
“He’s out in the pasture,” Jean said, alarmed.
The door slammed and Faith ran out, yelling. Forrest heard her and came toward her cries, his strides longer than normal. He stumbled, then held out his hand to feel the periodic fence posts.
“Pop, Honeybunch won’t go and she kind of fell down a little.”
Forrest shuffled across the dry grass and onto the dirt area surrounding the house and barn. Faith’s agitated voice was ahead of him, talking fast. He clapped his hands sharply to hear the echo off the barn to guide him. Jean came out to the corral, and Faith’s yelling brought the others.
Mort whinnied. There was a scrambling sound in the corral. Honeybunch jerked in convulsions and made guttural moans. Behind her, Skippy thrashed around in grotesque movements, her legs splayed widely, out of control. She jumped as if her legs were foreign to her, extensions she wanted to shake off. Her jaw opened and shut, opened and shut. Faith stood paralyzed at the corral fence, her hand clutching Jean’s skirt. Forrest opened the gate and went in toward the noise, his hands in front of him. Skippy, maddened and wild, bolted for the open gate, scraping her flank along the fence post. Her spastic movements carried her down the road past the barn toward Mother Holly’s.
“Mom!” Forrie screamed. “Skippy’s going crazy.” He leaned up against her, his body rigid.
In an uncontrolled contraction, Honey collapsed, her legs paddling the air. Mort reared up, then backed toward Honeybunch.
“Mom, Mort’s going to kick Honey,” Forrie screamed. Jean held Forrie’s shoulders tight in front of her. Then came the solid thud of hooves against belly, like a baseball bat against a bed pillow. She held Forrie tighter.
Mort’s hard breathing and snorting told Forrest which end of the big animal was which. “Hoa, Mort,” he said in a low, commanding voice. He slapped Mort on the rump, found his tail and twisted it to try to get him away from Honey. “Hoa, Mort. Hoa, Mort.” Mort kicked again, inches away from Forrest. Honey lay on her side, unable to protect herself from oncoming hooves.
“Let me go,” Forrie screamed. Jean tussled with thin arms and kicking legs trying to wrench themselves free. “I’m going in there.”
“No, you’re not.”
“He needs help,” Forrie screamed. “He’ll get hurt.”
Jean heard snorts and belches and whinnies, Faith’s cries, Hap’s whimpers and above it all, Forrest’s breathy voice, “Hoa, Mort.” Dirt sprayed her face. Rusty barked and jumped around the perimeter of the corral, as if afraid to get too close. Forrie struggled and jerked. “Let me go.”
Jean held on tighter, squeezing his arms. His elbow knocked her under the chin. He fought harder to get loose. “Forrie. Go in the house!” Jean thundered, her commanding voice as foreign to her as it was to Forrie. His limbs went limp and Jean stood up straight. “The rest of you, too.”
“But—”
“Go.”
She felt Forrie move backwards and heard the sound of dragging feet recede. In the midst of confusion she felt, for a fraction of a second, a strange buoyancy: they were obeying. All four probably walked backwards, watching the fierce spectacle in horror as long as they dared, but they still obeyed. The door closed. She stood at the corral fence, her fingers tight around the top rail, listening for indications of what was going on.
Forrest slapped and shoved Mort away from Honey, pushing him into a separate enclosure. He turned back and headed toward where he thought he’d been, but was too far off to the right. He clapped his hands again to learn where the barn was and adjusted his course. Guttural rumbles drew him to Honeybunch. He felt for the mauled belly, half afraid to stroke it but needing to find out. Bloated. He loosened the cinch. He felt her nose. Cold. Her mouth. Cold. Abnormally cold. A sick feeling erupted in his stomach, it was so cold. Her head moved aimlessly, raising up, then flopping down again. He crouched in the dirt with her and smoothed her coat. Her head raised up again, and he put his knee under it. The skin of her neck twitched beneath his stroking hands.
“Easy, easy Honey.” Honey’s contractions subsided. She ceased trying to raise her head. Instead, she let it lie on Forrest’s knee. “That’s a good girl.” His voice reached for that velvet quality, but trembled. Forrest stroked Honey’s big bony head.
He couldn’t hear Honey’s breathing. In fact, he heard nothing but the hot wind, calmer now than earlier in the day. Honey’s skin shivered once more under his touch and then was still. “Easy, Honeybunch,” he murmured. After a while he got up and walked toward the fence.
“Forrest?” Jean asked. He went toward her.
“She’s dead.”
Forrest and Jean stood facing each other, the fence between them. Forrest put his hand on the top rail and discovered hers. “Where’s Skippy?” he asked in a low voice.
“I think I heard her go out of the corral.”
Forrest called for Faith to go look for her, and Faith shot out of the house toward Mother Holly’s. She raced back to the corral. “Skippy’s tangled in the wire fence by the highway. She isn’t moving and she looks horrible.” Her voice cracked.
“Go back inside.”
Shock mixed with confusion. Forrest went back into the corral and felt for Honeybunch again to confirm what he thought. Her skin was motionless when he touched her. She didn’t breathe. He stood up in numb incomprehension and wandered slowly around the corral, trying to piece together what had happened, listening to see if maybe there was another animal in there. He walked over to the small enclosure where he heard Mort moving around, checked his pulse and his breathing. “You okay, buddy?” he asked. Then he followed the rail to the water trough. He smelled a chemical odor and stretched out his hands to feel around the ground at the base of the trough. His hand touched a metal container. It was empty. He picked it up and went back toward the gate.
“Jean, you still here?”
“Yes.”