Emma and the Cutting Horse (13 page)

“What are the candles for?” she asked,
pulling out a chair and settling in it with her knees pulled up
under the sweatshirt.

“The electricity’s off. Ice must have knocked
the wires down,” her dad replied.

“At least we have a gas stove. Do you want
some hot chocolate?” her mom asked.

Emma nodded and got up to get a cup from the
cabinet.

“The floor is freezing,” she said, wishing
she had put something on her bare feet. “How long do you think the
electricity has been off?”

“Don’t know for sure. It was still on when we
went to bed about midnight.”

Emma poured some hot chocolate into her cup
from the pan on the stove. Outside the kitchen window, the ground
was completely white.

“What time is it now?” Emma asked.

“About five,” her dad answered. “Another two
hours before it’s light enough to see outside. I’ve already called
the electric company, but there are so many people without power
that it may take them a while to get to us.”

Daylight came slowly under the slate gray
sky. Tiny snowflakes fell sporadically and a soft blanket had
formed over last night’s coating of ice. Emma dressed in several
layers and went out to explore this foreign world. Frost had formed
on the horses’ whiskers and their breath came in white puffs. The
sidewalk and driveway were slick as a wet mirror; and the air was
so cold it felt brittle.

Emma’s father started his truck and sat
listening to the radio while it warmed up and the ice melted off
the windshield. Emma climbed in with him to get warm. The weather
updates said that the Interstate was closed north of Waco. Road
crews were spreading a mixture of salt and sand in an effort to get
traffic moving again, but advised drivers to stay off the roads if
possible. Most schools and businesses were closed.

“Let’s see if we can get this thing down to
the pasture to check on the cows,” her dad said, grinning like a
kid setting out on a forbidden adventure. He shifted into reverse
and gently nudged the accelerator. The truck backed up a few inches
and then the wheels began to spin and it slid slowly sideways off
the driveway into the yard. Inch by inch he maneuvered out of the
yard onto the gravel drive where there was a little more traction.
Emma shook her head when she saw the muddy ruts he had left in the
yard.

“When Mom sees those ruts, your name’s going
to be mud,” she said.

“It won’t be the first time,” he agreed,
laughing.

The truck began to gain momentum as they
drove down the gravel drive to the pasture gate. Emma got out and
opened it, her boots crunching on the thin layer of snow. At the
hay barn, Emma’s dad loaded several bales of hay in the back of the
truck. On the way out into the pasture, the gravel drive gradually
changed to a dirt road, and the truck began to fishtail. At the
bottom of a small hill he began trying to build up speed to climb
to the top of the rise, but about halfway up their forward motion
slowed and then stopped. The tires spun and mud began to spray up
behind them.

“Damn,” Emma’s dad muttered. “I thought we
were going to make it.”

The cows, hearing the commotion, came running
over the rise to meet them. They were used to being fed from the
truck and knew the sound it made. Emma and her dad got out of the
truck and began breaking open the bales of hay and spreading it
around in piles on the icy slope. The cows slipped and slid and
jostled each other to get the best pile.

“I’m going to have to walk back and get the
tractor,” Emma’s dad said. “I’ll need you to steer when I pull the
truck out of the ruts. Can you wait here until I get back?”

“Sure,” Emma answered. “You won’t be long,
will you?”

“Nah! I’ll be back before the snow drifts
over the top of the truck.”

As Emma waited in the chilly truck, a tiny
patch of blue opened in the sky; but it soon disappeared behind the
layer of clouds again. Light snow was still falling, but the sky
seemed brighter. Maybe it was going to stop snowing and clear off.
By now the working order would have been drawn in Ft. Worth. Miss
Dellfene could be performing at this very moment. A wave of
disappointment swept over her. Why did this freak snowstorm have to
happen on the one day she had waited so long for? Any other day she
would have welcomed it. Looking around at the alien landscape, she
had to admit it was beautiful. The snow hid all the ugliness of
winter in Texas. The trees with their coating of ice looked fresh
from a fairytale. The loud popping of her father’s old tractor
interrupted her reverie. He came putting down the hill and pulled
the tractor in front of the truck. Backing up close, he climbed
down and dragged the end of a thick log chain over, hooking it to
the front of the truck. Then he opened the door and got in beside
Emma.

“John called while we were stuck down here.
He said Miss Dellfene drew number 223 and won’t be working until
late tomorrow. Maybe we’ll still be able to get there in time to
see her. Your mother said the weather radio calls for clearing this
afternoon, so if the highways are clear by tomorrow morning we’ll
leave early and spend the day in Ft. Worth.”

“That’s great,” Emma said, clapping her
gloved hands with excitement. “I was just thinking about how we
could be missing her performance right now.”

“True,” said her father. “This is one time I
guess it was lucky not to be first.”

Emma steered the truck as her father pulled
it cautiously out of the ruts and up the hill with the tractor. At
the top, he unhooked the log chain and she drove slowly back to the
gate. Emma had been driving in the pasture with her father since
her legs were long enough to reach the pedals. There was always
something he needed a driver for: throwing out hay in the winter,
picking up bales of new hay in the summer, bringing the truck back
from a just-planted field. He parked the tractor in the barn and
slid into the driver’s seat.

“Better let me drive from here. That way if
we slide off the driveway again, your name won’t have to be mud
too.”

The electricity was still not on in the
house, and the remains of last night’s chili were warming on the
stove. Emma’s mom was on the phone.

“That was the electric company,” she said
when she hung up. “There is a truck on its way out here now.”

“Radical,” Emma said. “It’s almost as cold in
here as it is outside.”

The temperature is up to thirty degrees,”
Emma’s father said, looking out the window at the thermometer on
the front porch. “Maybe by this afternoon the roads will start
thawing.”

The power finally flickered and then came on
at four that afternoon. The trees dripped and the smallest breeze
shattered their icy coating and sent it tinkling to the ground. The
clouds thinned and then opened to let patches of blue show through.
Emma’s father spent the afternoon checking water pipes for breaks
and parceling out extra hay to the cows and horses. He called Kyle
and told him to be ready to go to Ft. Worth the next morning.
Kyle’s father volunteered to check the cows and horses while they
were gone, and to feed and water the horses if they decided to stay
overnight.

It took an hour for the house to warm up
again. Television programs were interrupted every few minutes by
bulletins about road conditions, and most evening events were still
cancelled to keep traffic to a minimum. The Interstate opened again
and weather reports showed that Ft. Worth missed out on most of the
ice. Emma was yawning by nine o’clock, and went to bed early to
recover from last night’s lack of sleep.

“We’ll get an early start in the morning,”
Emma’s dad said. “That way we can take our time. There may still be
icy patches and we sure don’t want to have an accident.”

Chapter
Twelve

It seemed that Emma had barely closed her
eyes when her mom called her the next morning, but as she pulled on
her jeans the excitement began to return. The sun was a faint
promise on the horizon when they went out to Emma’s mom’s car,
sliding carefully in their boots over patches of refrozen ice in
the driveway. When they drove up Kyle’s lane to pick him up, he was
already outside waiting with his gym bag in spite of the icy
chill.

“Morning, Veronica,” he said as he slid into
the back seat beside Emma. “Thank Heaven for Texas weather. I was
afraid we might miss the whole Futurity, but like they say, ‘If you
don’t like the weather in Texas, wait a minute...it’ll
change.’”

The small country roads still had slick
spots, and Emma’s dad drove cautiously. When they got to the
Interstate, the concrete was clear and dry. Traffic was flying
along, but in the ditches abandoned cars testified to yesterday’s
many ice-related accidents.

On the drive to Ft. Worth, Emma’s dad seemed
determined to put a damper on the electric excitement buzzing
around inside the car.

“We’ve got to be realistic,” he said. “There
are over three hundred horses entered this year. They will be the
best three-year-old cutting horses in the world, ridden by the
best, most experienced trainers. It’s a one-in-a-million shot that
peons like us will win. We are very, very lucky to have made it
this far. Try not to be too disappointed if we’re heading home
after the first go-round.”

“Oh, lighten up!” Emma’s mom said, smacking
him gently on the shoulder. “We may not be one of the top dogs in
the cutting horse world, but I think that little mare is eaten up
with talent, in spite of her crooked knees. John Brown isn’t a
nobody; he’s spent plenty of time in the winner’s circle. He
wouldn’t bring her to the NCHA Futurity if he didn’t think she had
a shot at winning. Besides, the top fifteen horses are winners and
earn prize money. Let’s just think positive for now, and we’ll deal
with disappointment when and if the time comes.”

“Atta girl, Mom!” Emma cheered.

* * *

The Will Rogers Coliseum in Ft. Worth turned
out to be a cavernous, old building that seemed to echo with the
whinnies of famous horses. Emma’s dad explained that since 1936, it
had been the site of countless equestrian events. He pointed out
the Pioneer Tower that loomed above the domed coliseum while they
were still several miles away. It was one of those rare December
mornings when the rising sun glowed red through the misty air, and
the world seemed filled with promise. The patches of snow that
lingered on the ground at home were not evident as they approached
Ft. Worth.

Parking in the huge lot, they made their way
to the barns behind the coliseum to look for Miss Dellfene. In the
aisles between the rows of stalls, Emma began to feel intimidated.
Many of the stalls in the first barn sported shiny satin drapes
with the names of famous ranches embroidered in bold letters. They
were a lesson in western history; the King Ranch’s running W, Four
Sixes with its distinctive brand displayed on the stalls, Waggoner
Ranch, Shelton’s. A few of the ranches had more than one horse in
the competition and a well-known country-western singer had entered
five. Huge, decorated tack boxes stood in the aisles outside some
of the stalls, while other ranches had taken an extra stall to use
as a tack room. Everywhere she looked Emma saw evidence of money;
silver trimmed halters and saddles, color posters of sires and
grandsires attached to the fronts of stalls, men and women dressed
as though they had just stepped out of a page in the
Quarter
Horse Journal.
In the second barn, the displays weren’t quite
so gaudy, and in the last aisle, where they found Miss Dellfene,
names of horses and owners were printed on plain white paper and
stapled to the stall door. John was not around, but the mare was
quietly munching fresh hay and her water bucket was clean and full.
She looked contented and calm, as though she came to compete in the
Futurity every day. The blare of the microphone in the coliseum was
amplified in the barns so that contestants would know the number of
the horse that was working and could get ready before their numbers
were called. Kyle reached over the door of Miss Dellfene’s stall to
pat her on the neck, but she flattened her ears and backed
away.

“Touchy, aren’t you?” Emma said to the little
mare. “Must be more nervous than you look.”

The second day of the competition was already
under way, and the announcer was reading a horse’s name and number,
followed by the owner’s name and the rider’s. They walked back to
the coliseum and were pleased to find lots of space to sit and
watch. Emma’s parents chose seats above the herd of cattle where
there were no obstructions to block their view of the action and
scanned the audience looking for John Brown. Emma spotted him in
the next section of the stands, and her father went over to find
out how things were going. He sat with John for over an hour,
watching the horses work. When he came back, he filled them in.

“Miss Dellfene won’t be working until late
afternoon,” he said. “John is pleased because he’s had a couple of
chances to ride her in here during the warm-ups. Yesterday there
were a few horses that couldn’t get here because of the ice.
They’re going to let them work out of order.”

Emma read the explanation of the judging
system the NCHA used in a catalog she found on an empty seat. There
were five judges, each sitting in a small booth on stilts that
looked a little like a deer hunter’s blind. The booths were spaced
out across the arena near the center and had one open side so the
judges had an unobstructed view. As in the Olympics, the high and
low scores were thrown out, and the other three added together. The
morning passed quickly as one horse after another cut calves from
the herd and did its best to impress the judges. Most of them
seemed very competent and a few drew hoots of admiration from the
crowd. Emma’s dad and Kyle went out to the lobby for more catalogs
and came back with drinks and nachos for everyone. Kyle found a pen
in his pocket and began diligently writing down the scores in his
catalog as each horse performed.