buses to ferry riders at each day’s lunch break. While the horses rest, the riders travel back to the morning camp, collect their rigs, and then drive everything ahead and park it at the night camp. Then it’s back on the buses to the lunch spot, meet up with the rest of the ride, and continue all afternoon on horseback to the new camp.
Everybody hates all that back-and-forth and gobbling lunch, so I was grateful to Sal for letting me bypass the bus rides and leap-frogging. He said he was comfortable doing the driving, and if God had intended for him to learn to ride, he’d have put a herd of horses in the Bronx.
With the fog nearly cleared, the sun was starting to heat up the day. A yellow sulphur butterfly floated past. A scrub jay called from the low branch of a pine. I lifted my face to the warmth. As I was praying the temperature wouldn’t plunge again overnight, I felt Marty nudge my left leg with her stirrup.
“There’s Carlos,’’ she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “On your right. About four o’clock.’’
Oh, crap. My poor neck.
Once I got my head turned, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Carlos had traded in his driving-up-from-Miami clothes—a navy blue crewneck sweater and tennis shoes—for riding gear. And, unlike Sal with his gaudy glitter, Carlos had got it exactly right. His brown boots were appropriately scuffed. He’d angled his straw cowboy hat—a Resistol—just so. He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt, faded and soft. And his jeans were by Wrangler—the brand favored at rodeos from Florida to Washington State.
“The man looks gorgeous, Mace. I’ll give him that. That white hat with his dark eyes and skin? Umm-umm,’’ Maddie leaned in close from my right side so I could hear her lips smack.
Begrudgingly, I agreed that he looked hotter than a stolen pistol.
“But let’s see if he knows the north end of that horse from the south,’’ I said. “That’s a thoroughbred he’s riding, and he looks like a handful.’’
Carlos eased his horse to the front of the line, where the mule- and horse-drawn wagons were gathered. Even the most placid of horses will sometimes get spooky around pulled wagons. The look of them and the sounds they make can take some getting used to. And a thoroughbred, with its high spirits and often nervous temperament, is far from placid. I watched to see how Carlos would handle the horse.
One of the wagons had been having a problem with a brake that rubbed. As the driver circled the pasture to test his repair, Carlos urged his bay-colored horse toward the mule-drawn contraption. The thoroughbred’s ears went back. He rolled his big eyes until the whites showed, looking at the wagon as if to say “What in the hell is that, and how’s it going to hurt me?’’
The wagon clattered by, squeaking and rattling. The horse went into a fast sidestep, trying to flee. Carlos turned the reins, shifted in the saddle, and used the pressure of his legs on the horse’s belly to force him straight back to what he feared. Tossing his head, the horse turned round and round in a tight circle. Carlos repeated the same actions again, firm but not cruel. By the time he’d done it a third and fourth time, the horse walked along behind the wagon, as docile as the family dog.
“Looks like he has a little more experience than riding a police car through Miami’s concrete jungle,’’ Marty said.
“Hmmm.’’ I left it at that, not caring to add that the man whose skills I’d mocked could handle a horse just as well as I could.
At just that moment, he glanced my way. If my neck had been in better shape, I would have snapped my head around before he caught me looking. But it wasn’t, so he did. I could hardly ignore him now. Especially since he was heading my way.
“Hey,’’ I said as he rode up.
“Mace.’’ He stopped, and touched the brim of his hat. No smile. “Where’s your cowboy friend from earlier this morning? You looked like such good
Everybody hates all that back-and-forth and gobbling lunch, so I was grateful to Sal for letting me bypass the bus rides and leap-frogging. He said he was comfortable doing the driving, and if God had intended for him to learn to ride, he’d have put a herd of horses in the Bronx.
With the fog nearly cleared, the sun was starting to heat up the day. A yellow sulphur butterfly floated past. A scrub jay called from the low branch of a pine. I lifted my face to the warmth. As I was praying the temperature wouldn’t plunge again overnight, I felt Marty nudge my left leg with her stirrup.
“There’s Carlos,’’ she whispered out of the side of her mouth. “On your right. About four o’clock.’’
Oh, crap. My poor neck.
Once I got my head turned, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Carlos had traded in his driving-up-from-Miami clothes—a navy blue crewneck sweater and tennis shoes—for riding gear. And, unlike Sal with his gaudy glitter, Carlos had got it exactly right. His brown boots were appropriately scuffed. He’d angled his straw cowboy hat—a Resistol—just so. He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt, faded and soft. And his jeans were by Wrangler—the brand favored at rodeos from Florida to Washington State.
“The man looks gorgeous, Mace. I’ll give him that. That white hat with his dark eyes and skin? Umm-umm,’’ Maddie leaned in close from my right side so I could hear her lips smack.
Begrudgingly, I agreed that he looked hotter than a stolen pistol.
“But let’s see if he knows the north end of that horse from the south,’’ I said. “That’s a thoroughbred he’s riding, and he looks like a handful.’’
Carlos eased his horse to the front of the line, where the mule- and horse-drawn wagons were gathered. Even the most placid of horses will sometimes get spooky around pulled wagons. The look of them and the sounds they make can take some getting used to. And a thoroughbred, with its high spirits and often nervous temperament, is far from placid. I watched to see how Carlos would handle the horse.
One of the wagons had been having a problem with a brake that rubbed. As the driver circled the pasture to test his repair, Carlos urged his bay-colored horse toward the mule-drawn contraption. The thoroughbred’s ears went back. He rolled his big eyes until the whites showed, looking at the wagon as if to say “What in the hell is that, and how’s it going to hurt me?’’
The wagon clattered by, squeaking and rattling. The horse went into a fast sidestep, trying to flee. Carlos turned the reins, shifted in the saddle, and used the pressure of his legs on the horse’s belly to force him straight back to what he feared. Tossing his head, the horse turned round and round in a tight circle. Carlos repeated the same actions again, firm but not cruel. By the time he’d done it a third and fourth time, the horse walked along behind the wagon, as docile as the family dog.
“Looks like he has a little more experience than riding a police car through Miami’s concrete jungle,’’ Marty said.
“Hmmm.’’ I left it at that, not caring to add that the man whose skills I’d mocked could handle a horse just as well as I could.
At just that moment, he glanced my way. If my neck had been in better shape, I would have snapped my head around before he caught me looking. But it wasn’t, so he did. I could hardly ignore him now. Especially since he was heading my way.
“Hey,’’ I said as he rode up.
“Mace.’’ He stopped, and touched the brim of his hat. No smile. “Where’s your cowboy friend from earlier this morning? You looked like such good
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