I’ll come Monday, but let’s not go overboard.”
“Deal. Now, I want to give you some ground rules. Mine, not yours. I’m also talking to your dad now and then, but I’m not talking to him about you. Oh—he can talk about you if he wants to, but I’m not going to be asking him about you. And you can talk about him, but I’m not going to ask you about him—not unless there’s some compelling reason to ask something. Like if you tell me he beat you up, I’d probably ask about that. But—and here’s the most important thing—I’m never going to tell you what he said or tell him what you said. We have a confidentiality agreement. You don’t have to worry. You can safely air all your complaints or concerns here.”
“So you expect me to believe that if I call him a low-life, blood-sucking, parasite son of a bitch, you won’t rat me out?”
He smiled at her. “Exactly.”
One of the things that Lief had discussed with Jerry in counseling was where Lief had found reassurance, confidence and self-esteem as a kid. It didn’t matter where or how you grew up, these were things all kids needed. Lief told Jerry it had come to him in two places—his writing and his animals. On the farm he’d had a horse and a dog he called his own.
Since Courtney had never showed any interest in writing, Lief found himself at the Jensen Veterinary Clinic and Stable. Before he even got around to looking for someone to talk to, he saw a man in the round pen, working out a colt. He leaned on the rail and just watched for a while.
A young Native American man in the pen moved slowly around a young Arabian—a very spirited young Arabian. The horse pulled on the lead, reared, pawed at the dirt and the man remained focused on the colt’s eyes, his lips moving as he talked softly to the horse. At length the colt calmed and allowed himself to be led in a circle inside the pen. Eventually he lowered his head slightly and allowed the trainer to stroke his neck. The trainer spoke to the colt, and it appeared as if the colt nodded, though that was crazy.
It wasn’t until the trainer was leading the horse out of the pen that he noticed Lief. He lifted a hand and said, “Hello. I’ll meet you in the barn.”
By the time Lief went inside, the horse was secured for grooming and the man was approaching him, hand outstretched. “How do you do, I’m Clay Tahoma.”
“Lief Holbrook,” he said, taking the hand. “I watched you with the colt for quite a while.”
Clay just shook his head. “When I’m working with a horse, I don’t seem to notice anyone or anything else.”
“I have a fourteen-year-old daughter. If you can gentle her the way you did the colt, I’ll put you in my will.”
Clay laughed. “I know a lot more about horses than young girls, my friend. Does she ride?”
“I tried to put her on a horse a couple of times, but she shied. When I offered her riding lessons back in L.A., she wasn’t interested. I thought we might try again. Can you recommend someone? I’ll be honest with you—sometimes she’s a handful.”
“My wife and Annie Jensen teach some riding,” Clay said. “They’re very good instructors. And, my wife, Lilly, tells tales of her teenage years that make me go very pale. Add to that, we’d be grateful for a daughter one day—are we insane? But there you have it—if anyone can understand and handle a difficult teenage girl, it would probably be Lilly. Would you like to bring your daughter around sometime? Let her meet the horses and talk to the instructors?”
“Is it convenient after school one day? Provided she’s interested. I learned not to force her into anything. It isn’t worth the struggle. She can be so angry sometimes.”
Clay smiled. “There is an old Navajo saying—I heard it all the time growing up. ‘You cannot wake a person who is pretending to be asleep.’ She could be using anger to cover more vulnerable needs.”
“Any other old Navajo sayings around the house
“Deal. Now, I want to give you some ground rules. Mine, not yours. I’m also talking to your dad now and then, but I’m not talking to him about you. Oh—he can talk about you if he wants to, but I’m not going to be asking him about you. And you can talk about him, but I’m not going to ask you about him—not unless there’s some compelling reason to ask something. Like if you tell me he beat you up, I’d probably ask about that. But—and here’s the most important thing—I’m never going to tell you what he said or tell him what you said. We have a confidentiality agreement. You don’t have to worry. You can safely air all your complaints or concerns here.”
“So you expect me to believe that if I call him a low-life, blood-sucking, parasite son of a bitch, you won’t rat me out?”
He smiled at her. “Exactly.”
One of the things that Lief had discussed with Jerry in counseling was where Lief had found reassurance, confidence and self-esteem as a kid. It didn’t matter where or how you grew up, these were things all kids needed. Lief told Jerry it had come to him in two places—his writing and his animals. On the farm he’d had a horse and a dog he called his own.
Since Courtney had never showed any interest in writing, Lief found himself at the Jensen Veterinary Clinic and Stable. Before he even got around to looking for someone to talk to, he saw a man in the round pen, working out a colt. He leaned on the rail and just watched for a while.
A young Native American man in the pen moved slowly around a young Arabian—a very spirited young Arabian. The horse pulled on the lead, reared, pawed at the dirt and the man remained focused on the colt’s eyes, his lips moving as he talked softly to the horse. At length the colt calmed and allowed himself to be led in a circle inside the pen. Eventually he lowered his head slightly and allowed the trainer to stroke his neck. The trainer spoke to the colt, and it appeared as if the colt nodded, though that was crazy.
It wasn’t until the trainer was leading the horse out of the pen that he noticed Lief. He lifted a hand and said, “Hello. I’ll meet you in the barn.”
By the time Lief went inside, the horse was secured for grooming and the man was approaching him, hand outstretched. “How do you do, I’m Clay Tahoma.”
“Lief Holbrook,” he said, taking the hand. “I watched you with the colt for quite a while.”
Clay just shook his head. “When I’m working with a horse, I don’t seem to notice anyone or anything else.”
“I have a fourteen-year-old daughter. If you can gentle her the way you did the colt, I’ll put you in my will.”
Clay laughed. “I know a lot more about horses than young girls, my friend. Does she ride?”
“I tried to put her on a horse a couple of times, but she shied. When I offered her riding lessons back in L.A., she wasn’t interested. I thought we might try again. Can you recommend someone? I’ll be honest with you—sometimes she’s a handful.”
“My wife and Annie Jensen teach some riding,” Clay said. “They’re very good instructors. And, my wife, Lilly, tells tales of her teenage years that make me go very pale. Add to that, we’d be grateful for a daughter one day—are we insane? But there you have it—if anyone can understand and handle a difficult teenage girl, it would probably be Lilly. Would you like to bring your daughter around sometime? Let her meet the horses and talk to the instructors?”
“Is it convenient after school one day? Provided she’s interested. I learned not to force her into anything. It isn’t worth the struggle. She can be so angry sometimes.”
Clay smiled. “There is an old Navajo saying—I heard it all the time growing up. ‘You cannot wake a person who is pretending to be asleep.’ She could be using anger to cover more vulnerable needs.”
“Any other old Navajo sayings around the house
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