(9)Missy

Sarah peeled the last sliver of red skin from the last naked white apple, split it, and cut the core into the pan of parings. There, that was done. She got her coat and went to take the cores out to Barney.

He was eating hay in a corner of the huge box stall, but he turned eagerly when she came in, and nickered. It was more in greed than friendship, since he’d been reaping the benefits of Thanksgiving cooking all week long. Still, it was a homey, comfortable sound. Sarah emptied the pan into the oak feed box, and he nudged her aside. She watched him slobber and fumble, his busy tongue and lips searching the corners to make sure he’d gotten it all. “Pig.” She ran her fingers through his deep coat. He felt warm; he smelled warm, too, as she pressed her face against his shoulder, warm and dusty and pungently horsey. Was there time for a ride?

She went to the door to look at the sky. It hung low-bellied and sullen, threatening snow. Dad’s parents were driving up tonight from Boston for Thanksgiving. She hoped the snow would hold off till they arrived. Gramp regarded bad weather as a personal challenge from Nature, and never deigned to adjust his schedule to it.

She went in to check the time—only two. “Mom, I’m riding,” she called.

“OK, dear, but I need help with the pies in a while.”

“All right,” Sarah groaned. She hated making pie. It was hard to get right, and she always spilled flour all over everything. But Mom, who was also an only child, had always made the Thanksgiving pie with her mother, and that’s the way it had to be. Sarah had to admit, when they were set out on the table, that they were worth the work.

She led Barney outside and tacked up, remembering to warm the bit with her breath as the cowboy hero always did. Her bulky winter coat made mounting harder, and already her fingers were red and stiff. She needed gloves; mittens were no good for riding. Maybe for Christmas …

Riding in the pasture wasn’t as unvaried as it sounded; Barney did his best to make it interesting. On the flat at the bottom, he turned and stopped like a dressage champion, at the lightest pressure, and Sarah dreamed dreams of three-day event triumphs. But going uphill toward the barn he shattered them, going like a freight train with the brakes gone. There were a dozen degrees in between, depending on whether he was watching something, or feeling good, bored, or spooky. Was his mouth soft or hard? Iron gloved in velvet, Sarah decided. Which meant, really, that he did what he pleased.

They were on the flat now, and she tried a canter, a short one because of the frozen ground. Barney stepped into it willingly, but without his usual explosion. She pulled him in after a few strides; two trotting steps, two walking steps, and a smooth, square halt. “Barney, I just don’t understand you!”

Barney tossed his mane arrogantly. Of course she didn’t. He wasn’t meant to be understood. He thrust his nose down, pulling Sarah forward onto his neck, and snatched a mouthful of brown grass. Sarah pulled him up. “No, Barney! That’s a bad habit, and I don’t care if Missy let you. While you’re my horse, you don’t.” And you’re not my horse for long, now. Wonder why she hasn’t come yet?

To quell these thoughts, she put Barney into a working trot, and worked for a while on keeping her legs steady while she posted. But she couldn’t concentrate—her mind kept jumping to Missy and how much better she probably did it.

At last, with a sigh, she let Barney walk. “OK, we’ll go back along the fence line now, and see if we can see a deer.”

The chances weren’t too good, now that it was hunting season, but there was another reason. Going along the fence, they got quite close to the barn before they could see it, as it was hidden behind the hill. That meant a shorter distance in which to fight the losing battle to slow Barney down.

As she’d expected, they saw only squirrels and blue jays. She’d fallen in love with the jays, so beautiful and smart and bad-mannered. “Just like you, Bear.” Barney dipped his muzzle innocently. Then his ears swept forward as the barn came into sight, the barn which promised hay, unsaddling, and rest. Sarah snatched up a length of rein, but too late to keep him from breaking into a canter. His neck bowed like a war-horse, he strode on. Sarah was still hauling futilely on the reins when they swept through the gate. Barney skidded to a halt at his usual fence post, and tossed his head triumphantly. He’d won again.

Suddenly, a thin, trilling whistle cut the air. Barney swung his head around, his ears straining forward. Sarah turned, too, and saw a small, pale-haired girl running toward them. A loud nicker burst from Barney’s throat, far different from the greedy little sound he made for Sarah. The girl flung her arms around his neck, while Sarah sat frozen in the saddle.

They stood that way awhile, Missy’s face buried in Barney’s mane, his nose scrubbing her back pocket. Then Missy stepped back and looked at his head, stroking the flat of the cheek and the hollows above his eyes, fluffing his forelock. All the while she talked to him, in a barely audible voice.

It was like watching two people kiss in a bus station. Sarah dismounted to go, then stopped, paralyzed, as Missy’s hand found one of the raw patches by Barney’s mouth, where the bit rubbed when he pulled too hard.

She closed one hand over his nose and turned his head firmly so she could see. The little patch showed up terribly red to Sarah’s frightened eyes. The color rose in Missy’s face, but she only folded her lips tightly and turned away. When she looked at Sarah again, she showed no expression. “Hello, are you Sarah?”

“Yes,” Sarah gulped.

“I’m Missy. I’ve come to take Barney home for a while, as I wrote you I would. He … he looks to be in good shape.”

Sarah’s face went hot. “Those sores … I’m … I put Vaseline on.…”

Missy touched the raw patch tenderly. “Yes, Vaseline’s the thing to use. But you shouldn’t …” She stopped abruptly, folding her lips again.

“I know he shouldn’t have them at all, but he pulls so and I have to pull too or I can’t make him do anything.” She broke off, hating the wail in her voice. Missy ducked her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I realize it’s difficult,” she said finally, and Sarah could hear the barely controlled tremble in her voice. “But you can’t … no, not now!” Very flushed, she shook her head and turned away. “I … I have to get home quickly, before it starts snowing. Will you please—there’s a grain bag in the doorway of the barn. Will you please put the brushes and hoofpick and … the Vaseline … in for me? Thank you.”

Sarah got the things, trembling inwardly, and gave the bag to Missy, already on Barney’s back, straight and terrible and angry as Joan of Arc on her charger.

“Thanks,” she said again, and whirling Barney with barely a touch of the reins, she rode away. Stunned, Sarah watched them go down the driveway, Missy riding slim and easy on a loose rein, and the first snowflake caught in Barney’s black tail.