Rosie.
Just inside the tack-room door hung the wall phone. He had to reach it.
He could not.
Whoever had put away the boxes of hard hats and the mounting block the autumn before had set them beside the door, exactly in the wrong place beside the door. Bonita could not stand close enough. Colt stretched, until he was afraid he would fall, and could not reach even the doorknob so that he could open the door and head Bonita into it. Another rider, someone who could lean his weight in a stirrup, might have been able to manage. But Colt could not quite do it.
He hated being handicapped, he hated it, he hated it! Anybody else could have just stepped inside the tack-room door, dialed 911 for help, and here he sat, couldnât do the simplest thing ⦠Tears coming. Colt gulped them back.
Grow up, Osvaldo. Smarten up .
Things went wrong for regular people sometimes too. Like, what if the phone was out of order? What would he do then? If he couldnât help Rosie one way, heâd have to help him another way. There had to be one. Handicapped people can do things too.
Like think. You gotta think .
He backed Bonita out of the barn and rode her in a slow circle in front of the stable, considering the possibilities. The nearest houses were half a mile away, along the paved road. Ride Bonita out there, shout at doors, try to find someone home? Very risky, with cars whizzing past. Bonita would get used to cars probably in a few more rides, but for today she was going to spook at them, and if Colt got thrown, there would be nobody who knew where Rosie was. Try to flag down another slow-moving car along the dirt road? Same problem. Wait around the stable for somebody to come? Sure, but absolutely the last choice on his list, with Rosie sitting out there hurt.⦠The alternative was for Colt himself somehow to get Rosie out of the woods. All right, so for a long time he had been used to thinking of himself as pretty helpless, but sitting on top of his horse he knew: There had to be something he could do.â¦
Liverwurst stuck his head out over the paddock gate and whinnied at Bonita.
Horses.
Liverwurst.
Half a minute later Colt had Bonita back inside the barn, where the halters and lead ropes hung from a harness hook just inside the big sliding door. Liverwurstâs bridle was safe in the tack room, he couldnât get it, but a halter would be better than nothing. He selected the largest one, and a long lead rope. After a momentâs thought he took two lead ropes and clipped them one onto each side of the halter, like reins. Then he laid the things across the saddle in front of him and headed Bonita toward the paddock gate.
Liverwurst had ambled away. Of course. Horses were like that, Mrs. Reynolds said. Never handy when you wanted them. âLiverwurst!â Colt called.
The Appaloosa raised his big hammer head from his grazing and gave Colt an owlish stare.
âLiverwurst!â
The new spring grass was more important. The gelding lowered his nose to the ground again.
âAw, Liverwurst !â Everything was going wrongâ
Wait. Calm down. Thatâs no way to think .
It was not such a big deal after all, just a matter of getting the gate open and going in to catch him. And Colt would need to get the gate open anyway, to get Liverwurst out.
He maneuvered Bonita until she stood close alongside the gate, then backed her up until he could reach the sliding metal latch. â Good girl,â he murmured to her. Maybe she was a little nervous about cars at this point, but she did at once what most horses for some reason would not do at all: She stood by the gate where he wanted her, and then stayed there while he struggled with the latch.
Which I canât seem to get open â¦
The latch was stiff. All the weight of the gate pulled down on it, making it bind. Mrs. Reynolds, when she opened it, lifted the gate with one hand and muscled the latch with the other, but Colt couldnât do
Just inside the tack-room door hung the wall phone. He had to reach it.
He could not.
Whoever had put away the boxes of hard hats and the mounting block the autumn before had set them beside the door, exactly in the wrong place beside the door. Bonita could not stand close enough. Colt stretched, until he was afraid he would fall, and could not reach even the doorknob so that he could open the door and head Bonita into it. Another rider, someone who could lean his weight in a stirrup, might have been able to manage. But Colt could not quite do it.
He hated being handicapped, he hated it, he hated it! Anybody else could have just stepped inside the tack-room door, dialed 911 for help, and here he sat, couldnât do the simplest thing ⦠Tears coming. Colt gulped them back.
Grow up, Osvaldo. Smarten up .
Things went wrong for regular people sometimes too. Like, what if the phone was out of order? What would he do then? If he couldnât help Rosie one way, heâd have to help him another way. There had to be one. Handicapped people can do things too.
Like think. You gotta think .
He backed Bonita out of the barn and rode her in a slow circle in front of the stable, considering the possibilities. The nearest houses were half a mile away, along the paved road. Ride Bonita out there, shout at doors, try to find someone home? Very risky, with cars whizzing past. Bonita would get used to cars probably in a few more rides, but for today she was going to spook at them, and if Colt got thrown, there would be nobody who knew where Rosie was. Try to flag down another slow-moving car along the dirt road? Same problem. Wait around the stable for somebody to come? Sure, but absolutely the last choice on his list, with Rosie sitting out there hurt.⦠The alternative was for Colt himself somehow to get Rosie out of the woods. All right, so for a long time he had been used to thinking of himself as pretty helpless, but sitting on top of his horse he knew: There had to be something he could do.â¦
Liverwurst stuck his head out over the paddock gate and whinnied at Bonita.
Horses.
Liverwurst.
Half a minute later Colt had Bonita back inside the barn, where the halters and lead ropes hung from a harness hook just inside the big sliding door. Liverwurstâs bridle was safe in the tack room, he couldnât get it, but a halter would be better than nothing. He selected the largest one, and a long lead rope. After a momentâs thought he took two lead ropes and clipped them one onto each side of the halter, like reins. Then he laid the things across the saddle in front of him and headed Bonita toward the paddock gate.
Liverwurst had ambled away. Of course. Horses were like that, Mrs. Reynolds said. Never handy when you wanted them. âLiverwurst!â Colt called.
The Appaloosa raised his big hammer head from his grazing and gave Colt an owlish stare.
âLiverwurst!â
The new spring grass was more important. The gelding lowered his nose to the ground again.
âAw, Liverwurst !â Everything was going wrongâ
Wait. Calm down. Thatâs no way to think .
It was not such a big deal after all, just a matter of getting the gate open and going in to catch him. And Colt would need to get the gate open anyway, to get Liverwurst out.
He maneuvered Bonita until she stood close alongside the gate, then backed her up until he could reach the sliding metal latch. â Good girl,â he murmured to her. Maybe she was a little nervous about cars at this point, but she did at once what most horses for some reason would not do at all: She stood by the gate where he wanted her, and then stayed there while he struggled with the latch.
Which I canât seem to get open â¦
The latch was stiff. All the weight of the gate pulled down on it, making it bind. Mrs. Reynolds, when she opened it, lifted the gate with one hand and muscled the latch with the other, but Colt couldnât do
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