Minutes become hours, hours become days, February is closing in on March, and Diana never says a word to me about Bill Miller and Mama. And, as far as I can tell, she hasn’t spoken of it to Bill Miller either. She just keeps acting as if the entire conversation with her friends never took place, as if her husband was never engaged to my mother, as if our shared histories have been rewritten.
She keeps trying to treat me with kindness, but she is not the same sweet Diana I met in the hospital. Something deep within her has shifted. The color of her eyes has darkened. Her smiles seem tighter. And each day the tension builds until she snaps at me for no real reason. Speaks to me in ways I imagine she’s never spoken. To anyone. “No, Millie. You don’t grind your nails back and forth with that file. Goats do a better job sharpening their hooves on rocks, for goodness’ sake. You’re no goat, Millie. Don’t act like one.” She jerks the fingernail file out of my hand and models the correct method. “Smooth them. Gently. In one direction.” Then she pulls my hands to hers, with force, and says, “Oh, there’s just nothing I can do with this mess. It’s hopeless. You’re hopeless.”
Now, as we sit together at the supper table, she is clearing her throat to get my attention, trying to provide a clear example of the proper way to eat soup from a spoon. I am determined not to spill, so I lean in, over my bowl. Diana scoffs. “Might as well have a dog at my table!”
Sometimes she stops me halfway across a room and signals with her hands, and her eyes, to go back and enter again. Each time, I try to mimic her graceful way of walking, but I am clumsy and awkward, and the high-heeled shoes rub blisters.
Her words chew through me. This is not the same sweet-voiced Diana who sat by my side in the hospital. Who bought me a new black dress for my parents’ funeral and gave me a box filled with hope. This Diana has been betrayed. My entrance into her life has made her look a fool.
So now I try to avoid her as much as I do Bill Miller. I spend as much time as I can at the arena, and Diana seems fine with that. I guess as long as she doesn’t have to face me. As long as she doesn’t have to be reminded of her husband’s betrayal. Of her friends’ deceit. Camille tags along pretty much anywhere I go. Despite the smocked dresses and pristine nails, she isn’t scared of anything. She’ll climb trees just as high as I climb, dig in the dirt to catch all sorts of critters, and stare the toughest cowboy right in the eye if he dares question her bravery. She has what Mama used to call spunk. I couldn’t have picked a better sister if I had been given all the choices in the world.
Every afternoon, after I’ve shoveled the stalls and freshened the bedding, swept the walkways and restocked the hay, groomed the geldings and refilled the water barrels, I take the horses, all of them, two at a time, into the arena. I don’t know how to saddle them, but I can attach a lead rope. I walk them in circles for a half-decent workout, always wishing I could ride them, too afraid to ask. I think I’m doing some good, until Bump hollers, “Not much point in that. Might as well leave them in the stalls.”
Camille watches from the corner where she’s grooming a mare. “She doesn’t know how to put on a saddle!” she yells across the vast arena. I blush, ashamed that she’s told Bump the truth.
Bump takes long, solid steps toward me and says, “Well, why didn’t you say so? Bring Firefly,” he says.
He walks right past me and heads toward the tack room. I follow, restraining a paint gelding and leading a freshly groomed quarter horse mare named Firefly close behind me.
“If you want to work the horses, you gotta get them to sweat. I suggest you saddle them up and take them for a quick run. Pulse them back and forth, you know. Walk, trot, canter. Walk, trot, canter. Back and forth to get their hearts pumpin’ real good. That way you can work through the line quick-like.”
Walk. Trot. Canter. I’ve read about such things, but I have no idea how to make a horse do them. My confusion is not hidden from Bump. Nor from Camille, who shouts, “Might as well be talking to a wall. She hasn’t a clue, cowboy.” Camille always speaks like an old lady, with confidence far beyond her years. And she tells it like it is, never keeping anything in. I figure that’s why we’re so close. We’re both old souls, as Mama used to say. And I like that she doesn’t keep secrets.
“Look, I got some time this evening. I figure I can help,” Bump says, draping a saddle blanket over Firefly’s back and taking care to center it for just the right fit. He heaves the heavy saddle up over the blanket and pulls the two leather straps of the girth together beneath her belly. “Don’t let her hold her breath,” he warns. “She’s good at that, this one. She’ll trick you. Let you think you got the saddle all tight and snug. And then, just when you climb your plump rump up on top, she’ll exhale, and you’ll find yourself hanging upside down. Won’t you, Firefly?” he asks, tickling her behind her ears. She lets out a big breath, proving him right and making me laugh all at the same time. I wonder if he really thinks my rump is plump. My face turns pink.
Bump adjusts the straps. “You should be able to hold two fingers under here. No more. No less.” Then he inserts a metal bit into her mouth. She tugs in protest.
“Do you have to put that thing in there?” I ask, feeling sorry for Firefly as she resists the metal.
“It ain’t all that bad. You’ll be glad you have it, once you’re up there. Believe me.”
I do believe him. He seems to know pretty much all there is to know about horses, and I want to learn all he knows.
He is different from the other rodeo guys. Unlike Jack, who moved through the world with a pistol and spurs, Bump uses whispers and soft touches when breaking a horse. He whistles, clicks, and nods. He taps the tip of his boot to the dirt or snaps his fingers. He knows the importance of building trust, developing a bond, forming a relationship.
When Bump gets everything set, he wraps the reins around the saddle horn and helps me climb into the saddle. I can’t stop smiling. I have never felt so weak and so strong at the same time. Never thought such a feeling was possible. At first, I think it is from being up on a twelve-hundred-pound animal, but when Bump adjusts my leg to position my foot in the stirrup, I can’t help but wonder if my feelings have just as much to do with the cowboy as the horse.
Bump leads us back out to the arena, me riding Firefly, feeling tall and mighty. “Close your eyes,” Bump says. “You gotta learn to balance before you do anything else.”
I close my eyes and hold on tightly to the saddle horn.
“Feel her move,” Bump says. “Don’t worry about nothin’ else. Forget where you are and where you’re going. Just think about the horse beneath you. Follow her lead.”
It’s hard, letting go of the need to control things. My instinct is to want to feel safe, to keep my feet on the ground and my eyes open for signs of danger. But I believe Bump knows what he’s doing, and I already love this horse. So I try to release my fear as Firefly bends and bows beneath me.
“Not bad,” Bump says. “Now let go. Spread out your arms.”
“Are you crazy?” I argue, opening my eyes to see the guy who wants me to ride this horse with no hands. “I just got my cast off. I’m not looking to wear another one anytime soon.”
“I’ll do it,” shouts Camille. “Let me try. I’m not scared!”
“Close your eyes,” he challenges me again, winking at Camille to stall her long enough to focus on the task at hand. “I’m serious. If you wanna learn horses, you gotta let go of the fear. Now focus.”
I let out a long sigh. I close my eyes and try my best to tune into the energy of this animal. When I finally release my fear, I feel as though I’m in that old safe place again, sitting in the bends of Sweetie’s branches, connecting to a powerful force. All-knowing. I open my eyes again and see Bump and Camille. Both are watching me, waiting with patience, not worried one bit about how much time this takes. I straighten my spine and adjust my legs until I reach that perfect balance. Then I whisper to Firefly, “Okay, girl, I trust you.” I let go of the horn, and I spread my arms.
She keeps her pace, walking softly and smoothly around the red-dirt floor, but she could take off full speed and I would close my eyes and spread my wings and fly off into the blue on this beautiful mare.
I don’t want it to end, this feeling of peace. I don’t really know what to call it. I just know it’s real. Here, in the arena, as I learn to communicate with a beast more than ten times my size. I think of Jack and his fall from the bull. But I feel no fear. With my eyes closed and my arms spread wide, I discover my heart is opening to the possibility of faith and my mind is willing to trust in something bigger than myself for the first time in my life.