Chapter 7
The cold was intense, but the gorgeous afternoon made up for it. Everything was so bright and clear, it was as if all spring, summer, and fall a veil had covered our eyes, preventing us from seeing the stark, excruciating beauty of the land.
The ice crust on the snow dazzled as the horses crunched through it, happy to be out of the barn and small pasture. Rusty kept trying to spring forward into a trot but I didn’t want him to get hot or ahead of Mom and Cocoa, so I kept reining him back. Cocoa’s not too speedy and neither is Mom. She likes to sit back with a loose rein and stare at everything while Cocoa chooses where they’ll go. It’s funny how well suited they are to each other. They’re both eccentric and have strong opinions, but their opinions and oddnesses match each other.
In fact, that’s how Mom got Cocoa. Kestrel’s mom, Elaine, brought Cocoa over one day.
“You need a horse, Laticia,” she’d said.
“I don’t,” Mom disagreed.
“Yes, you do, for transportation, and Cocoa here is perfect for you.”
That made Mom raise a skeptical eyebrow, but she had to smile when she heard Elaine’s reasoning.
Apparently, Cocoa wasn’t a suitable ranch horse because she wasn’t interested in chasing cows. She’d be gazing off at the mountains and a calf would run right past her, its tail in the air, and she wouldn’t even see it.
“Cocoa’s a dreamer; you’re an artist; it’s perfect,” Elaine said as her closing argument.
Mom was still reluctant, but Elaine talked her into a two-week trial. By the end of Day One, Mom was totally devoted and so was Cocoa. There’s no way anyone could’ve separated them. Bright and early on Day Two of the “trial,” Mom and I rode over to Seth, Elaine, and Kestrel’s to pay for Cocoa.
Rusty and I have a similar bond. I’ve known him since I was little. I don’t actually remember a time when he wasn’t there. His thoughts have always been in my head, before I could even understand human speech. We love the same things – riding with Kestrel and Twitchy, exploring, and galloping through the forests and meadows. Most important of all, we trust each other. I know he’ll always be there for me and I’ll be there for him. And it’s nice to know I’m not the kiss of death for all horses.
My mushy recollections were cut short by that now familiar feeling of extreme hunger. I stopped Rusty. Cocoa must have been staring off into space because she bumped into his stalled rump, came to a stop, and snorted.
“The mustangs,” I whispered, before Mom could say anything.
“Where?” she whispered back.
I closed my eyes to concentrate better. One of the mustangs was thinking of how bitter the willow twigs tasted, so they must be down by Grass Lake. I pointed to the right. “We should tie the horses up here and see if we can get closer.”
Mom nodded. She dismounted and tied Cocoa to a tree, patted her on the shoulder, then turned to me expectantly. I stepped cautiously onto the snow crust and bounced. It held. I hurried toward the lake, bending low. Mom was light enough to run on the snow crust without breaking through too. She followed me, as silent as a shadow.
When we drew nearer, I moved behind a tree and Mom did the same with a neighboring tree. I peered around the trunk but couldn’t see the lake yet, so I flitted to another tree and looked again. Again and again, closer and closer, being as quiet as possible – which wasn’t as easy as it sounds, by the way – we sneaked closer.
And then I could see the lake through the trunks. The snow on its surface made it look like a meadow and willow sticks jutted all around its edge: a ring of red around a low snowy field.
Gold flashed and I inhaled sharply, then pulled back behind another nearby tree trunk. Mom looked at me questioningly and I motioned in the direction I’d seen the movement. Slowly, she peered around her tree, then looked back at me. She shrugged.
Maybe it was just an odd colored bird. I leaned out again, slower than slow, and through the tree trunks I saw a golden back among the willows. Wind Dancer.
The mare raised her head and snorted nervously, as if she sensed she was being watched. A forgotten whip of willow stuck from her mouth.
I pulled back. Wind Dancer’s unease rumbled through me. She sensed something was there, even though she had no idea what it was, or even if it was a danger. If we just waited and kept quiet, she might go back to foraging and her nervousness wouldn’t affect the others.
I heard a whisper of noise and looked over to see Mom running, furtive and light, toward me. She wanted to see what I saw. Tree trunks must be blocking her view of Wind Dancer.
But this time she wasn’t careful enough. The snow broke and she fell. The crunch was soft, but to super-sensitive mustang ears, it screamed that something was running toward them.
Wind Dancer stared bug-eyed in our direction for a split second and then the bushes seemed to explode. The mustangs scattered as they jumped away from the perceived threat, an eruption of black, gold, brown, and white.
Mom gasped, but I hardly heard her. The horses’ alarm pummeled me. A tidal wave of fear crashed over me.
Predator! Predator!
The horses raced across the snowbound lake, white powder flying in all directions. Their heads arched high as they stared back. They were expecting something to follow, something to race after them. Surely, such a vague sound wouldn’t be enough to cause such panic?
The mustangs stopped in the center of the lake, breathing heavily. Steam rose from their hot bodies and their breath was like smoke as their gaze raked the trees. At least they weren’t looking only in our direction now. I held my breath and waited, while Mom huddled, still as a stone, watching them. There was a long aching pause, and then the stallion’s head lowered and he sniffed the snow. Twilight meandered toward the willows closest to the herd, Ice close behind her.
Wind Dancer chewed again on the bitter willow stick in her mouth. Abruptly, she lowered her head and spat it out. An image slid into her head: our meadow with hay piled in the center. She was comparing her willow stick lunch to the hay dinners she’d had, and the twigs weren’t being judged favorably. If only Snow Crystal, the lead mare, would have such thoughts. Then I could be sure they’d be back, still not having recognized me. I probed a bit at Snow Crystal but she didn’t seem to be thinking much of anything – just that she was cold. Night Hawk, Black Wing, and Wind Dancer still felt nervous about the sound of the snow crust breaking. And for some reason, the two-year-old, Dark Moon, was still on edge. I was used to him being the foolhardy one, rushing in when the others stood back. Maybe he was ready for his own herd.
Snow Crystal leisurely trotted away from us across the frozen lake and the others fell in behind her, single-file. One by one, they disappeared into the forest on the other side. They’d spurned the willow sticks. Did that mean they were planning to have hay in a few hours? Maybe.
“That was amazing,” Mom said into the void the mustangs left behind, her eyes glowing. “I’m so glad you talked me into coming out.”
“There’s always cool stuff happening out here, but the mustangs are the coolest.” I smiled at my mom, then remembered she couldn’t see my mouth beneath my layers of scarves. “We should put out more hay tonight, Mom. They’re so close to the house that maybe they’ll be back.”
“Sure,” said Mom without a quibble, rising to her feet and brushing the loose snow from her pants. Maybe I’d successfully made her a mustang fan for good. “But right now, let’s get back to the house. I’m freezing.”
“Me too.”
We hurried back toward the horses, our arms wrapped around ourselves for warmth.
“I’m amazed that you knew they were there, Evy. How could you tell?” I sighed. Of course she would think of the one question I wished she wouldn’t.
“What do you mean?” Maybe feigning ignorance would help.
“You know what I mean. You knew they were there before you even saw them.”
“I just picked up on Rusty’s cues,” I said, using one of my p
repared excuses. “He told me they were there by acting different.”
“I didn’t notice him doing anything.”
“It’s not a big difference. You’d have to be riding him to notice.”
We reached the horses, untied them and mounted. They were ready to head home too – eager for their barn, hay, and the bucket of oats that they always got after a ride.
“So what does he do that’s different?” Mom asked, being irritatingly persistent.
“He, uh, acts interested. And yet not too interested. He steps a bit higher and perks his ears a bit more.”
Mom looked at Rusty’s ears. They were pointing forward. Very perky. “He looks interested in something now. Do you think he senses something?”
I laughed. “Yeah, that he’ll get oats when he gets home.” Humor: a brilliant distraction. Mom even laughed. “So,” I added to further distract her, “Any ideas for your next painting?”
“Just a little one.”
“About the mustangs running across the lake?”
“Maybe.”
That’s when I knew she had more than a little idea. She never tells me about the paintings that she feels passionate about. I looked over at her. She was staring off into space. Preoccupation with her new painting had kicked in, big time. She wouldn’t ask any more uncomfortable questions today.
I’ve regretted telling her about my “gift” so many times, and if I could go back in time and not tell her, I’d do it in a second. But how was I to know that she’d freak out – that she’d never forget the conversation, and that every so often she’d feel the need to search my psyche for strange thoughts?
All I can say is thank goodness for her paintings. And thank goodness times two that I figured out a long time ago that asking her about them was the key to avoiding psychological analysis. Right now she was riding along in another world, dreaming about her new painting, planning it, composing it, choosing her colors. And I was riding along, enjoying the last rays of a gorgeous, if increasingly chilly, afternoon, and hoping, praying, longing that the mustangs would come back that night.