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Date Posted: 04:47:35 07/05/10 Mon
Author: Larn
Subject: Back! But alas! Not in black!
In reply to: Debi 's message, "It's that time again..." on 08:09:21 06/26/10 Sat

Hello, guys! Long time, no see! I'm back from the land of Three Jobs, having managed to get it down into two, and am (big surprise) planning another move. For those of you playing along at home, that will be the ninth move in four years. Yes, it is getting rather old, though there is something to be said for the ability to fit your life into you car. Minus the mattress and box springs, of course.

Anyways, this is from the same novel I've been pounding away at for a while now. It follows option one, the lost idea. Sorta.

Beware, there is language and hand gestures not befitting a proper lady involved!

On Friday morning, the day the first guests would arrive, I arrived at the corral at seven, finally ready for my trail tour with Clint. I expected to see Paddy waiting for me, but instead found a tall, rangy chestnut with a long white blaze and two socks tied to the fence. He was fine boned but sturdy, the muscle of a quarter horse spread out over the frame of a thoroughbred. He turned to look at me and I was startled to see long, ragged scars across his nose, as if he had been slashed with a whip. His chest was marked, too, and his back legs had crisscrossed scars, old but still vicious looking.

�Oh honey,� I said, putting a gentle hand on his nose. I carefully felt the scars, searching for any heat or swelling, especially on his legs, but the wounds were properly healed.

�Poor buddy. What happened to you?�

�We bought him as a rescue,� said Mike from behind me. �He was only three at the time.�

He came up and laid a hand on the horse�s shoulder.

�Timber�s an Appendix Quarter Horse, bred for racing. His owner thought he was lazy, so he tried to motivate him. Timber didn�t like his methods and threw his jockey. The jockey got pissed, the owner got pissed, and together...�

�Oh poor, poor buddy,� I said, giving Timber an apologetic rub between the ears. He lowered his head, leaning into it happily.

�He�s eight now, and a good guy. Kinda lazy, but solid. Guests don�t like him cause of the scars, so I was thinking he�d be one of yours this summer.�

�We get more than one?�

�Each wrangler has two horses assigned to them. You get Padlock and Timber. It�s up to you which one you use and when, but most wranglers switch every two days or so.�

The noise of an engine was growing steadily louder, and we both turned to see what was coming down the road. Judging from the cloud of dust the vehicle was throwing up, it was huge, and going fast.

The ranch van appeared from around the bend, skittering on bald tires. It came to a sliding stop and the door flew open. A bag came flying out, followed closely with a young woman with disheveled hair and an attitude.

�Shit,� said Mike, under his breath. �Caroline.�

Her voice was loud, and it carried up to the corral despite the rumble of the van engine.

�Thanks for nothing, you drunken fuck!� she screamed at the driver, slamming the door. The driver yelled something back at her, then turned around in a spray of gravel and took off down the road, barreling through the dust once more.

The door to the ranch office opened and Margie appeared, saying something, looking pissed off. The young woman said something back, crossing her arms. The two women began yelling at each other.

�Who the hell is that?� I asked.

�Caroline. Margie�s daughter. Her real daughter.�

�Huh. They fight like it.�

�Yes they do.� Mike gave Timber one last pat before heading off towards the mess hall. �I better go make sure they don�t draw blood. Saddle up. Clint�ll be giving you the grand tour.� He handed me a radio. �Make sure to check in every hour, let us know you�re not dead.�

�Your confidence in me is truly heartwarming.�

Mike smiled at me, looked like he was gonna say more, but was interrupted by a slamming door from the mess hall.

�Yeah, well, better go play peacemaker.�

Mike trudged off towards the office, leaving me to contemplate how on earth I would get my heavy western saddle onto my new, and very tall, horse.

Luckily, Andy was on hand, and he showed me a clever trick, how to swing the saddle up and over the horse with the stirrup folded up so the heavy thing landed right on the withers without a lot of heaving.

�After all, I could do it for you, but then you�d never learn,� he said, taking the saddle off and making me try it myself. I had one false start, but Timber was patient with me and I managed it tolerably well on the second attempt.

�Now,� he said, tipping his hat back on his head. �Getting up is a bit of a trick, too.�

�No worries there,� I said, swinging my leg over Timber�s flank before Andy had barely stopped speaking. He grinned at me, pat me on the leg, then shuffled off towards the saddle barn. He and the other wranglers would be down in the south pastures today, moving the HR Bar�s small herd of cattle from their winter pastures down to the summer fields. I was a little disappointed not to be included, but also a little relieved to not have to work cattle on an unfamiliar horse.

Clint hardly said anything to me on the way out the north run. He looked kinda pissed. I supposed he was still smarting over my comment about Mandy, so I just let him sulk. When we got to the top of the north run, he opened the gate with a clever side pass on his horse, going through the gait and holding it open for me without dismounting. I nudged Timber through, still adjusting to the tall horse. With another sideways movement from his horse, Clint shut the gate and turned to look at me.

�We�ll do the short trails first. Try and keep up.�

And with that, he swung his heels and took off towards Little Mesa, his black horse�s tail streaming in the wind. Timber raised his head to watch, then twisted an ear back towards me.

�You heard the man,� I said, giving Timber his head. We broke into a fast canter, Timber�s long legs easily catching up with the shorter black horse.

The trails were beautifully long stretches of wide open pastures sloping gently into the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains. We galloped along ridges, mountains on one side, prairie on the other, each bend bringing another sight, another view point. We slowed to a trot and threaded our way through aspen groves and splashed through winding streams. The hours passed by quickly, marking time only so we could radio in. We finished one trail only to start another. We even traveled up one creek for a good half mile at a slow walk, giving the horses a chance to rest and Clint time to explain a few of the trails to me. He seemed to be more willing to talk, so whatever was bugging him at the corral seemed to have been left behind. It wasn�t hard to believe. The serenity of the pines was easy to let into your soul.

After a short discussion on where we had been, we turned out of the stream and onto another trail.

�Oh wait,� he said. �I think this is...I can�t remember...� he said, looking around in confusion. �I think this might be the preservation trail. Wait here just a second and lemme check. If not, we�ll have to go back down Silver Creek a ways.�

He took off at a slow walk down the trail, disappearing around a bend. Feeling a little saddle sore, I took the opportunity to get off Timber and stretch my legs, letting the horse take a long drink from the stream. When he started nosing at the grass on the side of the stream, I pulled his head up and mounted again. It had been more than five minutes since Clint had taken off down the trail. I began to get worried, so I called out to him. Nothing but silence and the twittering of birds came back to me.

Hesitating only a second, I sent Timber walking down the trail between the chokeberry bushes. After a few minutes, we came to a fork in the path where no less than four trails waited for us, not one of them marked. I called out for Clint again but got no response. Looking down at the ground, I could see clear hoof prints in the dust of the third trail. The others looked smooth. Didn�t take much of a Boy Scout to figure out which one Clint had taken.

Feeling like a genuine woodland tracker, I turned down the trail after my erstwhile guide. What little thrill my skills brought me was soon forgotten under a heavy cloud of suspicion. Short as his horse was, the tracks were too far apart for a horse that was walking. Glancing up the trail, I saw manure, not in the neat pile of a horse who had paused to relieve himself during a slow amble, but in small clumps strewn along the ground, evidence the horse had been trotting when the deed had been done. Clint was traveling away from me at a fast pace. Purposely.

A small, scratchy noise came from my saddle bag, startling me for a moment.

The radio. I had forgotten about it.

�...checking in for the eleven AM hour.� Clint�s voice was tinny and covered with static, but when I turned up the volume, I could understand him clearly.
�We�re heading back now. Emma wanted to see Ice Valley, so we�ll swing by on the way back. Should be back just before one.�

�Confirmed,� said Mandy. �How�s she holding up?�

�As expected.�

�You, uh, showed her Silver Creek?�

�Yep.�

�Excellent. See you in a bit.�

�Over and out.�

Huh. I briefly considered using the radio to call Clint, but something about their conversation made me stop and turn back down the trail towards the creek. Crossing the water, I scrambled up the hill to stand on the edge of the
plateau and looked back towards the ranch. There, about half a mile away, Clint was making his way around the wide ridge at a lope, clearly without plans to come back and get me.

They must not know I have a radio, I thought. They must think I�m an idiot.
Ok, so they wanted me to get lost, so they probably took me off the normal routes. Yet there were trails here, so I wasn�t in complete no man�s land.

From where I was, I could see the quickest way back to the ranch was not by way of the ridge, but back down through Silver Creek for a while and, if I remembered correctly, down the Clover Loop trail. That would lead me to the Rosebud Trail, which would dump me out right by the entrance to the north run. And if I put pedal to the medal, I could be there way before Clint even got down the ridge.

�What do you think, Timber? Should we grease his oats for him? Hell, I bet you know the way home. Dunno about you, but I�m about ready for lunch. Shall we?�

Plunging once more into the stream, we strolled through the water, me on the lookout for the exit to Clover Loop, Timber on the lookout for low hanging bushes he could steal a mouthful from. We came up on the trail about fifteen minutes later, and we set off back towards the ranch at a brisk trot. It was about a half hour later when we broke through the trees into Primrose Pasture and I could see the gate to the north run. I didn�t mind that I had to get down and open the gate for Timber to go through instead of doing a fancy side pass like Clint. I had all the time in the world. I mounted again, letting Timber amble towards the corral.

When we got back to the barn, I hopped off and led Timber to the hitching post. I took off his saddle, brushed the sweat marks off his back and released him into the wrangler pen to have a good roll and munch some hay. I glanced at my watch as I headed back towards the saddle barn. It was two minutes until noon. I took the radio from my belt and went to stand in the center of the corral.

�The is Emma with the noon check in. Ice Valley was lovely. Looks like we�ll be early for lunch. Over.�

I heard a noise from the office above, a loud thunk and the squeak of the office chair.

�Clint? Did...� Mandy�s voice was cut off by another transmission.

�This is Clint checking in. Emma went up Ice Valley for a moment of privacy. She�s been up there a while. I�m getting worried.�

�No, Clint, I�m just fine. Why don�t you go on ahead without me?� I said it loudly, looking up to the office windows. Mandy turned and saw me in the corral. She gaped at me for a half a second, then recovered.

�Come on in, Clint. Emma is...just come in.�

I watched as she set down the radio and came to the window, staring hell fire and brimstone down at me. I smiled, flipped her the bird, and went to lunch.

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Replies:

[> [> Dang girl, you're busy! -- Debi, 10:14:51 07/05/10 Mon

As always, I love this story! Emma's becoming quite resourceful since it sees like everyone is giving her a hard time as the newbie. But she's not about to let them get the best of her. I love it!
Try not to be gone so long this time, hm? And good luck with the move. Again. ;-)

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[> [> Larn! Larn! Larn! Dang it, I'm going to have to get up and do a happy dance now! >>> --

Page, 20:41:02 07/09/10 Fri

You're down to two jobs? You mean you actually have time now for things like food and sleep? I'm glad for you! However, I'm sure the guy that trims the bushes outside your bedroom window is going to miss you big time when you move. ;)

I adored this excerpt. Curses on Clint and Mandy trying to get Emma lost, and Bravo to Emma for outsmarting both of 'em and showing them up. There was only one thing I found that you might want to change:

When we got to the top of the north run, he opened the gate with a clever side pass on his horse, going through the gait and holding it open for me without dismounting. Shouldn't that be gate?

Oh, and I already want to adopt Timber, take him home and love the dickens out of him. You have a great talent at making horses come to life in your stories!

And welcome back!

Hugs,
Page

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[> [> Oh thanks guys! -- Larn, 03:05:53 07/13/10 Tue

Thanks for the well wishes. It's soon to be down to one job! Whoo!

Gait, gate. Sigh. Fixed it!

And as for time, it looks like I jumped back in to soon. I SHALL CATCH UP WITH THE BOARD ONE DAY! I WILL! I REALLY, REALLY WILL!

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