14

Change

Cassie, Rashawn, and Ashley come galloping toward Colt and me as soon as we reach the fairgrounds.

“I knew you’d come!” Cassie cries. She’s riding Misty bareback. Her feet dangle close to the tall grass as she and her pony thunder toward us.

Ashley trots up on Warrior, the Harpers’ jumper. The gelding looks better every time I see him. “Ellie, you can ride any of our horses you want,” she offers.

“Thanks, Ashley,” I tell her.

“You should come over and ride Misty with me tomorrow,” Cassie says.

“How about me?” Rashawn asks. “Come on, you guys. If any horse can handle riding double, it’s Dusty.” Rashawn laughs and strokes her giant horse’s neck.

The rest of us laugh too. It feels good. I think we’re all relieved to have something to laugh about.

“No way,” Colt says. “If you think Bullet and I are giving Ellie a free ride here today, you’ve got another think coming. She owes me now. Ellie has to set up the barrels for Bullet. Then she’s got to train both of us in barrel racing.”

Jonathan and Aiden and a couple of the others greet me like they’ve really missed me at practice. Jonathan says it hasn’t been the same without me, even though we’ve never said more than a couple of words to each other.

Only Larissa keeps her distance. She stays at the far end of the arena by herself. Custer’s Darling Delight looks beautiful—shiny and ready to show off.

Colt urges Bullet to the center of the arena. The other horses and riders move with us, keeping us in the middle of the herd.

It’s great having friends who care this much. I’m grateful. I hope they know that.

I end up riding Spirit, one of the Harpers’ horses. She’s older, but she’s in great shape. The mare still wins ribbons in palomino pleasure classes.

Ashley helps me saddle Spirit. She talks me into tacking her up English. It’s only the second time I’ve tried riding with a four-rein bridle. “You can handle the bridle,” Ashley insists. “I’m not worried, and neither is Spirit.”

Ashley may be right about Spirit. The mare holds still while I mount. When I take the reins—two in each hand—Spirit arches her neck and waits for me to cue her.

I like riding Spirit. Who wouldn’t? But I ache for Dream. For three years I had to ride one of Mr. Harper’s horses because I didn’t have one of my own. Now here I am again.

But so are You. Right, God? You’re here too. So we’re okay.

“Walk out!” Mr. Harper calls from the center of the arena. “Space yourselves!”

We keep close to the arena’s path. I hardly have to use the reins to guide Spirit. Right away I can tell she’s used to the other aids—legs, weight, voice, and hands. I’m not as in tune with her as I was with Dream. Dream could read my mind. But Spirit makes it easy to ride English. She knows what she’s doing.

“Teee-rot!” Mr. Harper calls out.

About half of us are riding English, so we post to the trot. Instead of trying to keep our seats in the saddle like the Western riders, we rise out of the saddle every other stride. Up and down. Up and down. I used to have to count one, two, one, two. But now I can feel the rhythm. I don’t even have to think about it. I know it’s because I’ve ridden Dream bareback so much this year. Some horses have such a rough trot. Not Dream. Dream has a sweet, smooth trot.

“Relax those backs, Aiden and Isabella!” Mr. Harper shouts. “Gently now. Feel the bumps. No double bumping. Keep those lower legs still, Ashley!”

When Spirit and I pass in front of Mr. Harper, he says, “Ellie, that’s excellent! Perfect saddle seat. I like those ankles and toes. Nice job.”

I know he’s probably saying those things to make me feel better. But maybe not. I feel like a better rider than I was . . . before Dream.

Mr. Harper takes us back to a walk. We reverse and trot again. Then walk. After that he calls for a canter. I try to focus on Spirit, but my imagination takes me to Dream. In my mind, Dream and I are cantering around the arena.

We’re halfway through the practice hour when a car speeds onto the fairgrounds. Dust makes a cloud around the car so I can’t even tell what color it is. The driver doesn’t slow down until the car is all the way to the arena. Brakes squeal. Several of the horses shy away. Aiden almost falls off.

I recognize the car, then the driver. It’s Mrs. Stevens, Colt’s mother.

Mrs. Stevens, dressed in a navy business suit that would be perfect for the noon edition of the news, steps out of her car as if it’s on fire. She slams the driver’s door and storms up to the arena, high heels fighting with the tall grass. “Colt! Get home right this minute. Do you hear me?”

Most of the kids look away.

Mr. Harper walks over to her. “Can I help you?”

Mrs. Stevens ignores him. “I mean it, Colt! Now!”

Colt trots Bullet up to her.

I want to sign something to him, but he’s not looking my way.

“I’ll come home after horsemanship,” he says.

“Now!” she screams. “You know good and well this is your father’s weekend. He’ll be here any minute. I told you. You’re going to St. Louis.” She turns her back on him and makes her way to the car.

“And I told you I’m staying here.” Colt says this in a calm, nice voice, which is more than I can say for his mother.

“What did you say?” she shouts from her car window.

Colt guides Bullet out of the arena and over to his mother’s car. He rides up to the window and says something I can’t hear.

Colt’s mother explodes. So does Colt. They shout, but their words bang into each other, so I can’t tell what they’re saying. Finally Mrs. Stevens starts the engine and backs the car away from Bullet. She drives off faster than she came.

Without looking back at us, Colt lets out a “Yee-haw!” Then he gallops away on Bullet.

I want to go after him. To help. To do something.

Only now I know a secret. I know that sometimes all you can do is pray. And that’s enough. That’s plenty, in fact. Because even if I can’t be with Colt now, God is.

God, please help Colt know You’re there with him. Let him be okay.