Emma and the Cutting Horse (9 page)

Beneath her glowing spring coat, muscles
bulged in Camaro’s forearms, chest and hindquarters. She was
descended from the old “bulldog” quarter horses with their square,
muscular bodies and explosive speed. Her ancestors had carried the
Texas cattle industry on their broad backs through early Texas
history and into the modern age, and they were still the fastest
horses on four legs for a quarter of a mile.

“Think she’s ready for the saddle yet?”
Emma’s father asked when he passed by Camaro’s pen. “I’ve watched
you drive her on the lunge line and she seems to have that down
pat.”

“I think she’s ready,” Emma said. “She knows
her voice commands, but she sure doesn’t get in a hurry when she’s
lunging. When I say ‘trot’ she slows down in the trot until she’s
just barely moving.”

“That’s an asset as far as I’m concerned,”
Emma’s father said. “I like my horses to take their time unless I
ask for speed. Can’t stand to ride a horse that jigs and jumps
around all the time.”

Emma brought her saddle and blanket from the
tack room in the hay barn and threw it onto the top rail of the
fence. Her father leaned on the rail thoughtfully.

“I’ll let you handle this unless I see that
you need some help,” he said.

Inside the pen, Emma put a halter on Camaro
and tied her to the fence with a horseman’s knot, pleased that her
father thought she was up to the challenge after what happened with
Miss Dellfene. If a horse got in a storm, she knew to pull the tail
of the knot to instantly release it. But, there was no storm with
Camaro. She sniffed the blanket and stood calmly as Emma rubbed it
over her back and neck and along her haunches. Then she centered it
on the mare’s back and picked up her saddle. With the right stirrup
hooked over the saddle horn she showed it to the mare and then
lifted it gently onto her back. Camaro turned her head to look but
stood quietly. Walking behind her to the opposite side, Emma
straightened the cinch and stirrup and went back to the left side
to fasten the cinch. She pulled the latigo slowly to tighten it,
watching the mare’s ears. Camaro raised her head a bit when it
tightened around her belly. All through this procedure, Emma talked
softly to Camaro, explaining what she was doing. The mare turned
one ear to listen, but her eyes looked soft and relaxed.

When she had pulled the cinch snug, Emma
untied Camaro and walked around her, slapping the saddle and
shaking the stirrup leathers to convince the mare that there was
nothing to be afraid of. Then she tugged gently on the lead rope
and led the mare into the center of the pen. She moved stiffly
beneath the unfamiliar weight, but there was no sign of the
explosion that Miss Dellfene had produced at this point. Emma
talked softly, patting her neck and telling her “good girl” each
time she did something correctly. Emma hadn’t realized she was
tense until she felt her shoulders began to relax. Her father gazed
into the distance where the cows were eating their morning hay on
the hillside, an unconcerned look on his face.

“Okay, Emma, you’ve got this under control,”
he said. “I’m going out and count calves. Just keep on with what
you’re doing. All that time you’ve spent with her in the past is
paying dividends now.” He strode toward his truck without a
backward glance.

For the next half hour, Emma led Camaro
around the pen, stopping to shake the saddle occasionally and
checking to be sure the cinch was still tight. More experienced
horses held their breath when the cinch was pulled tight and let it
out later leaving the saddle loose, but Camaro hadn’t learned that
trick yet. She changed directions often but nothing worried the
mare, and she knew that it was best to quit when things were going
well. Young horses, like young children, didn’t have a very long
attention span. Before she pulled the saddle off, she put her left
foot in the stirrup and applied a little weight to the side of the
saddle. Camaro took a step to the right, but didn’t seem especially
upset. It would have been so easy to swing into the saddle, but she
knew her father wanted to be present the first time she got on.

“Good girl,” Emma said again, patting her
fondly on the neck and scratching under her chin. She tied Camaro
to the fence and loosened the cinch. The mare sighed with relief.
After the saddle was off, Emma brushed along her back and behind
her front legs, and combed her mane until all the tangles were out
and the strange white top layer lay in feathery relief over the
black. This was the way starting a young horse under saddle was
supposed to work. She remembered watching her dad work through
these steps over and over with two-year olds. Camaro might still
pitch a little when she lunged her with the saddle on. It was
natural for young horses to try to shake the saddle off. But after
that they mostly accepted the inevitable. Why, she wondered, had it
been so different with Miss Dellfene?

* * *

Kyle arrived right after lunch and had to
wait while Emma and her mom cleared the table and washed the
dishes, but shortly after 1:00 p.m. they were on their way to watch
Miss Dellfene’s workout. John Brown had moved her to his training
barn, a few miles down the road from Gary’s place. When they pulled
into the lane, he was riding a paint horse in the arena with
several Spanish goats. The paint, a gaudy overo, knew what he was
supposed to do and performed with lazy confidence. John rode him
very slowly among the goats until he had worked one away from the
others. The goat trotted out to the middle of the arena, but the
paint horse stopped just a few feet beyond the herd of goats. The
goat in the middle looked around and realized he was all by
himself. He turned and started to rush back to join the others.
That’s when the action started. The paint horse lowered his head
until it was eye level with the goat. He sat back on his haunches
and, just as the goat started to rush past him, he whirled and
leapt in front of it, blocking its way back to the others. When the
goat turned to go the other way, the paint spun and blocked its
path again. They went back and forth across the arena, the goat in
a hesitant trot and the paint horse turning beside it just in time
to block its return to the herd. Finally, the goat gave up in
frustration and, turning away from the horse, trotted back to the
center of the arena.

John touched the horse’s neck with his hand
just in front of the saddle, and the paint immediately relaxed. He
rode over to Emma’s parents and dismounted.

“He looks like he knows what he’s doing,”
Emma’s dad commented. “Are you showing him this year?”

“Maybe,” John replied. “He still has some
wrinkles to iron out. Let me tie him up somewhere and I’ll get your
mare so you can watch her work.”

He led the paint horse out of the arena, and
disappeared around the corner of the barn. The goats hurried over
to the fence to see if Emma and her parents had any handouts.

When John returned with Miss Dellfene, she
pricked her ears at the goats as though she was excited to see
them.

“I’ll have to warm her up a little,” John
told them, as he took her through the arena gate and stepped
on.

Inside the arena, he walked and trotted her
in small circles, then loped some figure eights. She had been
practicing spins on her hind legs and was now so accomplished at it
that she made the loose ends of the reins fly in the air as she
whirled. The goats formed a huddle at the far end of the arena.
When the mare was loosened up, John started her toward the group of
goats in a slow walk. She tried to speed up, but he reined her in
and made her stand still in the middle of the herd of goats for
several minutes as they milled around her. At last, he reined her
toward a red and white goat and walked the mare behind it until she
got it away from the herd. As soon as the goat noticed that it was
alone, it turned and tried to dive back into the herd, but Miss
Dellfene turned in front of it and blocked it easily. The goat ran
from one side of the arena to the other, and the mare seemed to
dance in front of it. Her ears flipped back and forth constantly.
Her movements were so graceful that Emma could not take her gaze
off the horse. Miss Dellfene seemed to float across the ground; but
what amazed Emma was that she appeared to love doing it. She could
read the joy in every line of the mare’s supple body. The goat soon
tired and stopped in the middle of the arena. Miss Dellfene stood
in front of it, waiting anxiously for its next move. Her ears
flipped back and forth impatiently. Suddenly, she began to tap her
front feet on the ground, as though she were dancing in place.
“Move, goat!” her feet seemed to say, and the goat, unsettled by
the dancing feet, jumped to the left. She turned to block its
escape easily. Then the outmatched goat gave up, turned around and
ran to the back of the arena, bleating. John touched Miss Dellfene
on the neck, the signal to “quit”. She stopped, but reluctantly,
reminding Emma of a football player who has been ordered out of the
game.

“I’m still giving her cues with my legs and
the reins, but she’s catching on fast,” he told them. “Before long,
I’ll need to have her practice with cattle. So far she’s making
very good progress. If I can get her to do that little foot-tapping
dance at the Futurity, the judges will love it. Are you willing to
keep on with her training? You’ll have to pay the NCHA nomination
fee soon.”

“I guess so,” Emma’s dad said, “although
sometimes I question my own sanity. I haven’t watched enough
cutting horses to have an expert opinion, but she sure looks good
to me. She doesn’t seem like the same hard-headed horse we brought
home from that sale a few months ago.”

“She still has her moments, but you’re right,
she
is
good. To win the NCHA Futurity, though, she’s going
to have to be
great
!”

The last few weeks of school dragged by as
they usually do. In the bleachers one morning before school, Emma
handed Katie some wadded up bills from her pocket.

“Will you do me a favor?” she asked. “My mom
won’t let me wear make-up yet. I think I’m the only girl in high
school who doesn’t own any make-up. That’s probably why Candi
Haynes thinks I’m such a hillbilly. When you go to the store with
your mom, would you get some for me? Please? I never get to go to a
store without my mom along, and she’d throw a fit if I asked her to
buy me make-up. I’d have to listen to a long lecture about painted
women.”

“Candi Haynes isn’t messing with you because
you don’t wear make-up,” Hannah said.

“I know,” Emma admitted. “But I
am
sort of a hillbilly. I just want to try some.”

“What kind of make-up do you want?” Katie
asked.

“What kind do you wear?”

A little mascara and some blush,” Katie
said.

“Get some foundation, too,” Hannah suggested.
“It covers up zits and stuff.”

Emma was so busy studying for semester tests
that there was no time for riding or thinking much about the
Futurity. Her mom took over some of her after-school chores so she
had more time to study.

Candi Haynes increased her efforts to bug
Emma, taking a detour in the cafeteria to pass by her table daily
as if she was trying to get in some extra points before summer
vacation when she would be deprived of her victim. Emma tried to
get involved in conversation with Hannah and Katie when she saw her
coming, but when Candi bumped against her back and called out,
“Howdy Hayseed!” Emma turned around and glared fiercely at her.
Their eyes met, and this time Emma refused to look away. Candi held
her gaze for a few moments, walking backward so she could keep
staring at Emma.

In one smooth, furtive movement, a large,
male foot extended into the aisle between the tables. Candi tripped
over it, stumbling against a row of boys. The foot disappeared
under the table just as quickly as it had appeared. One of the boys
caught Candi’s arm and kept her from falling on her butt, but as
soon as she had recovered her balance, he turned around and picked
up his fork again. Emma thought she heard a titter of light
laughter, as Candi straightened up and sauntered out of the
cafeteria. Emma watched her go. Maybe it was her imagination, but
something seemed different about Candi. Her clothes weren’t
perfectly ironed anymore, and today she wore her hair pinned back
with a simple clip. It even looked a little stringy.

“You should tell the counselor she’s still
messing with you,” Katie said angrily. “Somebody needs to pluck
some of her feathers.”

“I know,” Emma said, “but it’s so close to
the end of school. I keep hoping I can get through the rest of this
year without making too big a fuss over it. At least she’s stopped
writing on the bathroom walls and sticking horse butts on my
locker.”

“Wow, that’s really nice of her,” Katie said
sarcastically.

Mrs. Killen had never mentioned the locker
incidents again, but Emma still had the wrinkled yellow pass stuck
in one of the pockets of her backpack. Knowing it was there gave
her courage.

Chapter
Nine

Katie came through with the make-up one
morning in the gym before school.

“How are you going to put it on if your mom
won’t let you wear it?” she asked.

“Wait until you get to school and put it on
in the bathroom,” Hannah suggested.

Emma hugged Katie and stuffed the bag of
make-up in her purse. On the way to lunch she waited until the kids
cleared out of the bathroom and then unscrewed the mascara brush.
She liked the way it darkened her lashes and stroked on several
layers. Before she knew it her eyelashes were stuck together in
clumps and she had gotten some in her eye. When she tried to wipe
it off, black smears appeared under her eyes. Even after several
attempts to remove it with a wet paper towel she still looked a
little like a raccoon.