Lilac's Chance

Chapter Six

"Show that mare who's boss!"

It's windy and brisk, and for some reason this makes all of the horses playful. This is great for the horses in the fields, galloping and bucking, but for me, not so much.

My stomach swoops as Last Chance plunges downwards, sending her heels up to kiss the sky. She has the bit solidly inbetween her teeth- there's no pulling her head back. She twists underneath me, her entire body a sinuous coil, ready for backlash.

Wind claws it's way into my ears, screams into my mind. This isn't the celebratory wind of a fast horse, or the gentle breeze of a summer day. This is a hungry winter wind, and it has driven the horses, as Ned would say, mad.

Last Chance lurches upwards. I slam into her neck, grabbing at mane. My stirrups are lost to the wind, banging against my legs and the mare's sides, giving her more incentive to spurt forwards.

"Rein! Rein! Pull back, girl, dangit, pull back!"

Duh.

Coming to my senses, I drop one rein and use the other to pull back. Up and back. Towards my hip.

Caught, a spider in a web, Last Chance's head whips around to bang against my leg. She spurts forwards still, but her body follows her head and she's left half-cantering in a furious circle. When she realizes she's not getting anywhere, she stops, breathing heavily.

So am I.

The whirling landscape slows down enough to reveal the track, looking worn from the amount of times its been pummeled by hooves, and Hank, looking worn for possibly the same reason.

"Well," I start. "Her time was pretty good, before she decided she'd rather be a rodeo horse."

Hank jams his hat onto his head, grinding it down until it looks like he grew it instead of hair. He scowls. "Dangit, girl. She pulls that kind of a stunt at the track and we'll be kicked out of there faster than you can say ladybug."

He turns on his heel and storms back uphill towards the barn, leaving me to cooldown Last Chance by myself.

"Where'd ladybug come from, of all things?" I ask her. 

Last Chance snorts in response.

The cool winter wind seems to have staved off any signs of tiredness, even after the palomino's workout, so I ride her back up to the barn to untack and brush down. She's my first and only horse to exercise ride today, and yesterday and tomorrow and the rest of my life. There's no other horse on Bonawinds to ride, except for broodmares to walk and jog around the property to get into shape for their foaling. But that hardly counts.

Braydon is at the barn when I lead Last Chance in, raking the aisleways. The mare jumps and dances sideways, snorting loudly, still silly. The rake stops, and she settles and walks calmly past Braydon. So do I.

We haven't spoken since our argument, and I don't want to be the one to break our lovely silence. But I risk a quick, "thanks."

He doesn't respond, merely picks up the rake and continues scratching neat, even lines into the dirt on the barn floor.

*****

I last a week before I can't take it one more minute.

"Hank," I say, "we need to talk."

He looks up from his card game with Braydon. I can't tell who's winning, but neither of them look happy with the score. Rain splatters against the roof, hazing the distance through the window into something gray and unfriendly.

I feel the same way.

"Well, shoot. What about?" Hank asks. Braydon needles me by rolling his eyes, but I ignore him. Have been all week.

"Your microwaveable dinners may work for you two, but I need actual food. Healthy food." I've limited the amount of premade mashed potatoes I've consumed over the past week, but if I don't eat an apple or drink some tea soon I think I'll quit. No job is worth missing my tea.

Hank sighs and sets aside his cards, much to Braydon's displeasure. "Well, with this weather I suppose a trip into town won't be unwelcome," he says with a pointed look towards windows painted with rain. "Braydon?"

He shakes his head and tightens his mouth. We've barely exchanged a single word since our argument, and it leaves me uncomfortable- a mixture of guilt and justification. He was a jerk, but he was also a righteous one. It's nice that he cares about his siblings, but it's no reason to treat me so rudely. So I ignore him and rush out the door and into Hank's pickup, which is about twice as old as I am and just as resolute.

A few moments later Hank joins me and starts the truck, shaking off rain that accosted him on the walk to it. As he starts the truck, I realize it's the first time I've been in any vehicle since Mother Teresa's death, and my stomach knots anxiously.

The old truck putters away from the house and downhill, angling straight between the barn and the pastures. All of the horses have been brought into the massive stables to avoid the frigid rain, so it is a bleak landscape I gaze upon.

And then we're past the fields and driving over the bridge that connects Bonawinds to the dirt road. The ditch beneath it is just like any other ditch in the world- filled with dirt and broken branches, brambles and the occasional plastic litter. It's hard to console it with the end of my beloved truck.

Hank interrupts the silence. "It's a lucky thing you crashed into that."

"Yeah... lucky," I echo, unsure. That crash gave me a job, and introduced me to Quarter Horses, which I'm beginning to respect a little more with each passing day. But the weight of Braydon's glare and Mother Teresa's fate rests uneasily on me.

There's a sort of pause, as though Hank's deciphering the meaning to my words. Then he shifts in his seat and cranks the truck into another gear, turning off the bridge. The landscape begins to blur by, not from speed, but from the unpaved road, which disagrees with the truck and sends us bouncing and jostling all over the cracked leather seats. Finally he says, "I'm not sure what went on with you two, but I wish you would give each other a chance."

I can't speak against his nephew, but I must make some sort of noise because he adds, "I already told him to do the same for you."

No response. Outside, I catch a glimpse of something that's a cow or possibly a horse before the truck jounces my head against the side of the window. Ouch.

Hank shrugs. "In the end it's your decision. I just thought not being in an argument would make Sam Houston a lot easier for you two."

"Sam Houston?"

He nods and reaffirms his grip on the steering wheel. How far away is Bonawinds from town? What I imagined was a comfortably silent drive to town with rain patting the truck in a sweet harmony. Not talking about a boy I most definitely will not get along with. Ever.

"The track I'm sending you to for Chance's race."

My mouth feels dry. I manage: "you're coming, right?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Someone's gotta care for the horses, and Braydon just isn't as experienced with that, especially since we're still in foaling season."

I sigh. It makes a depressing amount of sense. Hank merges onto a paved road, so I carefully lean my forehead against the window. It's so cold, it burns. "I'll try to talk to him."

Hank nods, and we drive on in silence.

I think we both know I won't.