Saddle Up Box Set

Holding the Reins It shouldn’t have felt like walking towards a prison. Barn Five was painted crisp white with forest green accents on the shutters and doors, and a classic red rooster weathervane sat atop the cupola. But it felt like prison to Marcus Denton. All of his life, he had run towards horses and into happiness: manure-scented walkways, hay-filled stalls, a life awash with gleaming horseflesh. No longer. It was a brisk winter morning in Florida, the second of January. Marcus carried a steaming coffee cup as he walked through the dawn’s mist. He stopped at the north end of Pasture Fourteen. A slender groom led a horse into the gate, turned the animal to face him, and unhooked its halter. The horse twisted, gave its little free-at-last buck and kick, then cantered towards Marcus. He heard the thud of its hooves on the sod, the whuff of air as it breathed during its run. He couldn’t tell which stallion it was; the animal slipped by him in the mist, a ghost in the fog. Christmas had cleared Marcus’s own fog. At his sister in-law’s house in Indiana, his seven-year-old nephew, Anthony, had played on the rug with his new racetrack set, while Marcus nursed a tumbler of Scotch. In late afternoon, the house was quiet around them. Everyone else was napping or occupied elsewhere. Marcus watched Anthony in silence. “Where’s Uncle Philip?” the boy asked. He varoomed the car over the track, his eyes never leaving the red Corvette in his hand. “He’s gone, Anthony.” “Where did he go?” Had Jeanette told her son what happened? Could Anthony even understand? Should Marcus tell the truth or lie? Ten heartbeats of silence. Anthony looked up at Marcus, blue eyes wide. “Where did Uncle Philip go?” Let Jeanette deal with it; he was her kid. “He’s dead.” “Oh.” The toy car slipped off the racetrack and Marcus’s heart pinched—just that brushbeat of fear and pain. He couldn’t watch truck commercials anymore. “My turtle Emma died.” Anthony kneed over to the car and set back on its path. “But it’s okay. Daddy got me a new one.” Marcus didn’t reply. His face must have looked strange because Anthony left the room, his little-boy lips trembling. Marcus stayed, his head bent over to his knees, his arms folded over his head. There were no tears, just an awful wailing inside of himself that he couldn’t stop. When he finally stood up, it was dark, and his arms tingled and sparkled. He could barely move them. Now, he walked up the path towards the barn with sureness in his steps. Time to do this. A new year, a new chance. Marcus didn’t take chances any more. When he got up to the stallion barn, Lowell O’Connor, his farm manager was there. Lowell was a former jockey, all of five-feet-two-inches tall, and even in middle-age, no more than a hundred forty pounds. But his heart was huge. He had run the operation since last March, run it all without imposing on Marcus’s pain. All he’d ever asked was for Marcus to sign the checks. “A hearty good mornin’ to ya, Marcus Paul.” His soft Irish brogue washed over Marcus like a balm. There was something so right and soothing about that voice in his barn. “And to you. Coffee on?” “Aye. In the office.” His bright blue eyes looked Marcus over. “What brings you here so early? “What’s going on today?” “The Glenview Farm mares are due in at two. Donegan wants them to settle in before the early breeding.” “Who’s the stud?” I should know this; I’m too out of touch with the barn’s business. “Darth Vader.” A true black stallion, not a wisp of bay or chestnut in his coat. And just as irascible as his namesake. Even Philip had never ridden Vader, and the exercise riders had flipped coins over who would breeze him for his daily work-out while he was racing. The stallion’s fighting spirit had won them over three million dollars during his race days. Now, Vader earned his keep by servicing mares from all over the world. “Want to help?” There was kindness in Lowell’s tone. “No, you can handle it.” Marcus looked away from Lowell’s piercing gaze. “Pasture Fourteen needs manure pickup today. Please tell the crew.” “Yes, sir. Shall I tack up Mr. Smartypants for ye?” “No, thanks. I’m not riding.” Two grooms walked by with frisky stallions on each lead. Their shoes clopped on the cement walkway, the comforting sound of home. “I’m gonna clean out Phil—the tack room today.” Lowell looked down the walkway towards the room at the far end of the barn. Since the stallion barn always had fewer horses, there had been space for Philip’s sizable collection of saddles, bridles, pads and riding clothes. He and Marcus had converted an end stall. They spent a day installing windows, nailing up drywall, and gluing down a cheap vinyl floor. When they were done, Philip had laid Marcus out on the cold vinyl and heated them both to a passionate fire. The door was closed, as always. No one had been inside since March. “Aye.” Lowell’s voice was soft. “Time to let go, eh?” “Something like that.” “I’ll have the lads muck these stalls last.” “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Marcus helped the grooms get the last five horses out to pasture, haltering them in their stalls, then leading them out of the barn for handoff. He stood for a minute with Mr. Smartypants, resting his forehead against his horse’s solid neck. Nothing more sure and stable than a horse—or at least he used to think so. He kissed the horse’s jaw and gazed into its soft brown eyes. “What do you think, Smartypants? Is this the right thing to do?” Smartypants pressed his soft nose against Marcus’s hip for a second, then pricked his ears when the groom came to collect him. No wonder he likes the grooms more now; I haven’t spent enough time out here. Marcus saw Lowell give the stableboys their orders and then he was left alone. The barn’s ceiling tall over him, hay dust flaked to the ground and over him. He hated that the barn felt like this to him now. A wretched burst of anger, like a balloon popping. Goddammit, Philip, why did you leave me? Stupid. Irrational. As if Philip had a choice. He sighed and opened the tack room’s door. * * * * The smell of leather and saddle soap lent a warm perfume to the cold air. Grime and dust lay over everything in the room: the four saddle trees that held covered saddles, the bridle sets hanging from their pegs on the wall—their leather gray instead of rich brown, the wicker tack truck had grime worked into its creases. Marcus sneezed three times, took two steps into the room, then sneezed twice more. He stood still for a moment, gripping his emotions as carefully as he would hold a worked-up stallion. He opened the two windows that faced north and west, and tugged off their screens. Dust wafted through the air with every move he made; the air turned gray as he started sweeping from the ceiling down. He tugged down spider webs from the rafters; they drooped gracefully to the floor, clinging to the rough walls. Did Philip try to cling? Did he reach for me? Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t think, just work. Marcus’s arms twinged a little from the exercise. He hadn’t been to physical therapy since October and the pull of muscle over his own healed arms poked at him. He flipped on the little space heater, took off his jacket, and kept working. * * * * By nine o’clock, he had the major cleaning and sweeping done. The morning’s haze faded and sunlight glinted off the metal items in the room. Two dozen trophies on the bookcase, the bridles’ bits and connectors, a half dozen stirrups lined up on a pegboard. Neat, tidy. Just the way Philip wanted things. The bridles and bits clinked cheerily as Marcus tugged them down. He set the leather ones into a bucket by the door for the grooms to clean and oil. He turned back and let his fingers stroke the red canvas bridle that Thunder had worn. He brushed a few dark horsehairs from its brow band. He couldn’t remember why Thunder’s buyer hadn’t wanted the red bridle; he could barely remember Thunder leaving. Had he gone outside as the gelding was trailered? Did he even say goodbye to the animal that Philip had so loved and coddled? The red bridle slipped from his hand. A flashy bridle for a flashy horse—and rider. Marcus smiled as memories pooled in his mind and with a deep breath, he dived in. * * * * The Florida State Fairgrounds, just east of Tampa, had a scruffy equestrian center. Its five barns were built of rough concrete block; each stall was a small-ish twelve by twelve. Most exhibitors brought their own thick rubber floor mats to add to their hay; it protected the horses’ legs from the unforgiving flooring. There were no overnight facilities unless you trailered in your own camper. Not exactly a place for grand romance, so when Marcus fell in love in Barn Two, it made even the rundown site sparkle and gleam. “I’m going to grab a Killian’s with Bob,” Marcus’s father said after lunch that afternoon. His eyes were bloodshot and he was three years away from his liver’s failure. “I’ll see you at dinner, yes?” “Later, Dad,” Marcus replied. Twenty-eight years old, he was itching to run the farm on his own but his father still ruled the four hundred acres they had up in Ocala. He’d settled into training horses and a horseman’s life. A life only another horseman could understand. Up at five o’clock every morning, every day of the year, helping mares foal—which came inevitably at two in the morning—the crushing physical labor that went with running a breeding barn. A few lovers had moved in and out of Marcus’s little cottage on the north side of the property over the years: Robby, a horse trailer driver who was gone five days out of seven; Robert, a sinewy jockey who had won some races for the stable until a badly broken leg ended his riding career; and Miguel, a slim Latino groom who stayed a month and then moved on. Marcus and his father, along with Lowell, were at the Tampa show that March to scout for stallions. It was time to bring back in some weight and stamina to their bloodlines. Often a hunter/jumper stallion could nick a racing Thoroughbred mare’s lines and produce stellar foals. His father didn’t look at the videos that various farms had sent them; Marcus did and he knew two of the stallions would be at that week’s show. Marcus waved goodbye to his father, then went on the hunt.