“THERE’S SOMETHING I don’t understand,” Carole told Max Thursday afternoon while she was saddling Cobalt.

“What’s that?” he asked, smoothing the saddle pad for her.

“It’s that Veronica always complains that Cobalt is difficult.” She lifted the saddle and placed it firmly on the horse’s back. Then she slid it into place and reached for the girth.

“You do understand,” Max said. “You’re just being polite.”

“Maybe.” Carole shrugged, knowing that was Max’s way of saying she was a much better rider than Veronica.

“But I’ll tell you this,” he continued. “I never approved of Mr. diAngelo buying a stallion for Veronica to ride. A gelding or a mare would be much better for a young rider. A stallion like Cobalt has got an awful lot of spirit. It takes a very skilled rider to handle a stallion. Veronica isn’t one; you are.”

Carole really didn’t know what to say to Max. He rarely complimented his students. Most of them—including Carole—were thrilled with an “okay” or a “that’s better” from him. And that was all most of them got.

“I shouldn’t complain, though,” Max confided. “Cobalt is a Thoroughbred with fine bloodlines. It’s an honor to have him in my stable.”

Horses, Carole knew, were always evaluated by their bloodlines, meaning who their parents were, and their parents. It wasn’t the least bit unusual to know a hundred years’ worth of breeding history for the better horses, like Cobalt. And, since horses tended to pass on predictable characteristics like speed and temperament to their offspring, it could be extremely important to know that those characteristics were part of the family history carried in the bloodlines.

“I know that running fast and jumping high are in his bloodlines,” Carole told Max. “But what constantly amazes me is how smart he is. You know what I got him to do yesterday? I got him to bow! Can you believe it?”

“I was watching from my office,” Max said. “I was pretty impressed.” There was a sly grin on his face.

“Oh, I know it’s silly show-off rodeo stuff,” she said. “But it was like he wanted to do it. After only about four tries, he just did it.”

“Well, today why don’t you see if you can teach him something more useful?” Max said.

“I thought we’d work on sideways movements and circles today, and then tomorrow, if it’s okay with you, we’ll just have a fun ride on the trail.”

“And on Saturday?” Max asked.

“On Saturday, Veronica will ride him in class. I won’t be here this weekend at all. Dad and I are taking a trip together. He has to go to Camp Lejeune for the Corps and I get to go along.” Carole adjusted the stirrups to the right length for her lanky legs.

“You have family down there in North Carolina, don’t you?”

“Yes, I’m staying at Aunt Elaine’s. She’s my mother’s sister. We aren’t coming back until Tuesday. Dad got special permission for me to miss school.”

“He didn’t ask me if you could miss riding school,” Max said.

For a second, Carole was afraid he was serious, but when she looked at his suntanned face and saw the sparkle in his sky-blue eyes, she knew it was a joke.

“Have a good time,” Max said. “But don’t fall for any of those Nowth Cahalaina howses, yuh heah?!” he teased in a southern accent.

“No way!” Carole told him, laughing. “There’s only one horse for me and he’s right here!”

Carole led Cobalt out of his stall and over to the entrance to the ring. She slipped her left foot into the stirrup and lifted herself up. As she settled into the saddle, she saw a look of concern cross Max’s face. But when she looked again, it was gone. Clucking softly to Cobalt, she brought him out into the ring, remembering to touch the stable’s “good-luck horseshoe” nailed on the wall by the mounting block.

That horseshoe was one of Pine Hollow’s oldest traditions. Every rider touched it before beginning a ride. As long as anybody could remember, nobody had ever been seriously hurt riding at Pine Hollow. Carole was pretty sure that the real reason for that safety record was because Max (and Maxes I and II) had always been very fussy about the quality of riding at Pine Hollow, but it didn’t stop her from touching the horseshoe every time she mounted. It also didn’t stop her from riding very carefully.

“COME ON, BOY,” Carole urged Cobalt. “Over to the left. You can do it.”

She knew perfectly well that Cobalt didn’t understand the words, but hearing her voice seemed to give him confidence. She was working with him on lateral, or sideways, moves. Usually riders practiced moving a horse forward, and sometimes backward, but for the experienced rider, sideways could be just as important. It was often essential for shows, demonstrating the rider’s ability to control the horse and the horse’s ability to respond to commands.

Today Carole wanted to teach Cobalt to turn on the forehand—and she wanted to learn it herself. Holding the reins short enough so that she knew for sure when she was putting pressure on Cobalt’s mouth, she moved her right leg back a very little bit and pressed on Cobalt’s side. First, he stepped forward. She drew the reins inward to stop his forward movement and held them there. Then, she pressed again with her right leg.

It worked! Cobalt’s right rear leg stepped to the left, his left leg following, while his front legs remained stable, shifting only to pivot. Carole did this several more times and, before she knew it, the horse had turned completely around a circle, with his front legs at the center of it.

“Good boy!” she said, patting his neck firmly. “Good boy! I knew you could do it! Let’s try it again, okay?”

Cobalt stretched his neck. Carole could have sworn he was nodding to her, but she knew better. After all, how many times had Max told her horses couldn’t understand English? A lot of them learned to respond to words like “trot” and “canter” if they heard them during a class and there were other horses doing those paces already. Some days it seemed to Carole that they could tell time, too, the way they started heading for their stalls when an hour-long class was almost over. But those things were really the result of training, not an understanding of language or clocks. It was the same as when she got fidgety in her math class after about thirty-eight minutes—or sometimes only three minutes!

Cobalt, however, seemed to understand more. Maybe it was more than Carole’s words and tone of voice. Part of it, she was sure, was how well she could feel his movements under her with her legs and with her seat. It was logical that he was as sensitive to her on top of him.

Standing still once again, she tried a turn on the forehand to the right. Cobalt executed it perfectly, as if he’d been doing it all his life.

How on earth, she wondered, could Veronica own this wonderful animal and not want to spend every waking minute with him?

“I know you’re going to miss me, boy,” she said, leaning forward in her saddle, stroking the horse’s glistening black coat. “But I won’t be gone long. I’ll be back in a couple of days. We’ll ride together again soon—just you and me, Cobalt.”

Carole nudged Cobalt with her heels and he began a regal walk around the ring. As they passed Max’s office window, it suddenly flew open. Max stuck his head out.

“Looks like you and Cobalt had a pretty good session. But how many times do I have to tell you that horses don’t understand English?” he said, only half-joking.

“Don’t worry, Max,” she shot back. “It’s not English. I’m teaching him Swahili!”

Max shook his head, then pulled it back in and shut the window firmly. Carole signaled Cobalt to pick up the pace. Soon they were cantering around the ring, smooth as glass, fast as the wind.