Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 5

Shelby grinned. Tipper and Topper weren’t exactly terrible, but they were pretty low in the initiative department and tended to hang out and gossip with anyone in earshot unless given direct orders. And those orders needed to be simple and explicit, as she’d found out the hard way after asking Tipper to watch a white sauce, only to have her closely scrutinize it as it boiled over onto the stove.

  “We’ve got dinner handled,” Gran said firmly. “Go do Mom stuff.”

  Shelby went, but all during the half-hour drive into town, she kept second-guessing herself, feeling guilty about taking the time off when Krista and Gran were giving them so much already. Until, that is, she pulled into Bootsie’s Saddlery, and Lizzie’s eyes lit. All week, she’d been practically a ghost, either hanging out in the cabin or sitting in a corner of the kitchen, jacked into her gadgets, playing or reading in silence. Now, though, she sat up straight and reached for the door handle before they were even parked.

  Seven days driving cross-country: hundreds of dollars. One summer sabbatical: thousands. Your child’s expression when she sees a two-story-tall plastic boot out in front of a log cabin? Priceless. Shelby didn’t care, though. She would totally take what she could get.

  “Okay, kiddo. You ready to get some riding gear so you’re all ready for your lesson tomorrow?” Shelby waited a ten-count, trying to balance the awkwardness of the pause—and the anxiety it would provoke in Lizzie—against the hope that the tack store might be enough incentive to get her the “yes” nod that was one of the last real ways that her daughter communicated, and then only rarely these days.

  Some SM kids chattered away using notes and texts, while others developed a vocabulary of gestures and body language. Ninety-nine point nine-nine-something percent of them interacted nonverbally with their family members and even outsiders. Lizzie, though, was one of the tiny fraction that didn’t. She wasn’t autistic, wasn’t learning disabled. She was just . . . silent. And the treatments that usually worked with SM kids hadn’t made a dent.

  Refusing to let her grin falter when her daughter just kept staring out the window, Shelby undid her seat belt and opened the door. “Come on, then. I bet they’ve got a pair of boots and a helmet with your name on them!”

  The interior was just as wonderfully kitschy as the outside, with spinning racks of silver-accented belts, glass cases of huge, blinged-out buckles, rows of gleaming leather boots, and a paint-chip wall of hats at the back. Racks held peacock-hued shirts with snap studs, matching his and hers, and four-sided shelves offered every version of Wrangler jean known to mankind. Short staircases on either side led to rooms full of tooled saddles, horse blankets, and grooming accessories, and the air smelled of leather and new clothes.

  Shelby stopped just inside the door and took a deep breath. It wasn’t exactly her normal territory, but shopping was shopping, and she knew how to do that with some serious style. And with a latte buzzing through her system, she was good to go. “So, kiddo, where do you want to start?”

  Lizzie stood frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed.

  A dark-haired twenty-something came toward them, wearing crisp blue Wranglers, a snap-studded blue shirt, and the same kind of “I know what I’m doing” swagger worn by the wranglers up at Mustang Ridge. She dimpled at them. “Can I help you ladies?”

  “Did the deer-in-headlights paralysis give us away as newbies?”

  The dimples got deeper. “That, and Stace asked me to keep an eye out for you. Shelby and Lizzie, right?”

  “Yep,” Shelby said. And we’re a long way from home. Back in Boston she barely knew the people in the apartments on either side of her and rarely saw the same employee twice at the big stores they frequented. Telling herself it was sweet, not creepy, that Lizzie’s new instructor-to-be had called ahead, she added, “Lizzie here is starting her riding lessons tomorrow, and Stace gave me a list of basics she’d like us to get—helmet, heeled boots, a few grooming supplies, that sort of thing.”

  Shelby had met briefly with the ranch’s only full-time female wrangler—who called herself a cowboy, claiming that the word “cowgirl” was only for sissies these days—and had liked her immediately. Plump and pretty, with dark hair and an easy smile, Stace had offered some good theories about a lesson plan for Lizzie, and ways to tie it into the more traditional SM therapies. For starters, she had suggested getting Lizzie some of her own equipment so she’d have a sense of ownership and something specific to take care of in the barn. That had made good sense to Shelby . . . and she was forced to admit that she needed some new clothes for herself as well. Three pairs of stretchy black pants and city boots weren’t going to cut it at Mustang Ridge for much longer. She had brought other clothes, but they were even fussier. And as the days got pretty hot—even hotter in the kitchen—not appropriate for day-to-day life at the ranch.

  “Right this way.” The clerk turned and headed deeper into the store, gesturing for them to follow. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’m Torie, by the way. How about we start with a brain bucket?”

  “A . . . right. Helmet. Lead on.”

  Torie brought them to a side room that had crash helmets displayed on the walls, with boxes stacked beneath. They ranged from the velvet-covered kind Shelby remembered from her childhood, all the way to shiny composite versions that looked more like mountain biking gear. “So helmets aren’t uncool out here in the Wild West? I haven’t seen anybody wearing them at the ranch.”

  The younger woman started pulling boxes off the stacks. “Then there must not be any other kids there this week.”

  “No. It’s singles week.”

  “Oy.”

  “You’re telling me.” Though to be fair, aside from the public decompression of a hot-and-heavy, forty-eight-hour-old “relationship” late Monday and a hair-pulling squabble over who had won a romantic private dinner for two on Wednesday, things had been relatively quiet on the guest front. Shelby had ducked a couple of invitations, soothed some hurt feelings, and mostly stayed out of the way.

  “Well,” Torie said, “helmets are required at Mustang Ridge if you’re under eighteen or riding in a speed event, which is more than a lot of ranches do. But if you ask me, anybody who throws a leg over a horse’s back should wear an approved helmet like this one, one hundred percent of the time.” She pulled one of the bike-type helmets out of a box, brushed Lizzie’s hair back from her face, and settled it gently in place. “Hm. That’s not the right shape for you, is it, Lizzie? Looks like you’re not really an oval kind of gal. We’ll try a manufacturer who swings round.”

  She didn’t seem curious about Lizzie’s lack of response, suggesting that Stace had filled her in. For a change, Shelby was grateful. Back home, the gossip got them sidelong looks, pity, and people who talked slow and loud. Here, it got Lizzie the space and lack of pressure she needed.

  “How about this one?” Torie asked, pulling out another contender and tucking Lizzie into it. The helmet was a big, round shell in a blah beige color, like an overturned salad bowl. There was no visor or anything, just an adjustable nylon harness that fastened under her chin and a wheel at the back that snugged it onto her head.

  Torie fiddled with the adjustments and the webbed harness, buckled Lizzie securely into the contraption, and turned her to face Shelby. “What does Mom think?”

  Mom thinks it makes her look like a roll-on deodorant. “Is it super safe?”

  “Crash-tested and approved with all the alphabet soup agencies.” The younger woman winked, apparently reading her mind, or close to it. “Don’t worry, finding the perfect helmet cover is the fun part. We’re just getting the fit right first. Once you’ve got a shell, you can put everything from a Western hat to a jockey’s polka dots on it. Better yet, you can switch out different styles when you get bored.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, I love it.” Kneeling down in front of Lizzie and getting nice and close to her, so she’d be blocking out the overwhelming peripherals, Shelby said, “How does it feel, kiddo? Is it comfortable?”

&nb
sp; Because it was important, she made herself wait out the response this time, zipping the urge to fill the silence with background babble. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Lizzie gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Relief washed through Shelby, and she felt giddier than the moment deserved, maybe, but still. “Do you want to pick out a cover for it?”

  And, wonder of wonders, she got another nod, this one faster and more definite. And for a second, she saw a hint of the old Lizzie in those big brown eyes.

  Forcing herself not to overreact and scare her kid back into hiding, she kissed her cheek. “Good job. Let’s see what Miss Torie has for us.”

  A fun fifteen minutes later, they settled on two helmet covers: a straw hat like the ones the wranglers wore, and a stretchy pink nylon cover that made the helmet look like a horse’s head, with pricked ears, a yarn mane, big cartoon eyes, and nostrils painted on the visor. The whole effect was one of a slightly startled My Pretty Pony, or maybe Puff the Magic Dragon. Which was still way better than a roll-on.

  “Boots next,” Torie declared, “then grooming supplies. And then how about something for you, Mom?”

  “Jeans and a few shirts, definitely, then maybe a pair of boots.”

  “Style or comfort first?”

  “Both?”

  “Ariat,” Torie decided. “Justin or Abilene might work for you, too, but let’s start with the Ariats, as they have killer arch support.”

  “Got anything on sale?”

  “Ah, a woman after my own heart. We’ll get you hooked up.”

  Torie was as good as her word, supplying them both with cowboy clothes and all the trimmings, to the point that it was getting on to dinner by the time Shelby and Lizzie emerged from Bootsie’s, hauling bags and feeling all Westerny.

  Lizzie would’ve done the Easter Bunny proud in a sparkly pink belt, purple kid-size boots that Torie assured them would be great for riding, and a straw hat with a bright pink band. Shelby, on the other hand, had kept it pretty subdued on the theory that she was already a poser for wearing cowboy clothes, and adding bling would make it worse. But although she was outside her comfort zone, she had to admit it . . . her new boots felt good. Pointy toes aside, there was something about walking along with her heels doing a little click-thud, and the way they made her wiggle more than she normally would. Or maybe that was the jeans. Torie had stuffed her into a pair of stretchy Wranglers that were seemingly imbued with five percent spandex and five percent magic, because that was the only way her butt could possibly look like that.

  “When in Wyoming,” she said, and grinned down at Lizzie.

  Her daughter stopped dead and grabbed her hand so suddenly that she looked around, wondering what had scared her. It took a moment for her to realize that she was tugging for her mom to lean down.

  Shelby squatted. “What is it, baby?”

  Lizzie leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  • • •

  Friday morning dawned gray and drizzly, getting some grumbles from the guests and making Shelby worry that Lizzie’s evening lesson would wind up canceled. By lunchtime, though, the sun broke through in a glorious double rainbow that had to be a sign of good things to come.

  At six thirty that evening, with the end-of-the-week barbecue well under way and Tipper and Topper minding the picnic tables down by the lakeshore, Gran pointed at Shelby, who was washing pots. “You’re done for the week. No arguments. It’s lesson time. Stace is waiting for you and Lizzie.”

  “I—”

  “What did I say about arguments?”

  Shelby laughed and held up her sudsy hands in surrender. “Wasn’t going to argue, I swear. I was going to say, ‘Thank you, Gran. You’re the best.’” After a week together, they had fallen into an easy rapport, which pretty much consisted of Gran urging Shelby to take extra time with Lizzie when the schedule permitted, and Shelby pretending that Herman was a member of the staff.

  Gran offered her a big smile. “Have fun, the two of you. And don’t forget there’s a bonfire later. Music, drinks, s’mores, the whole nine yards.”

  “We’ll see you then,” Shelby assured her.

  When she got back to the cabin, she found Lizzie parked in her corner, glued to one of her near-disintegrating Bridle Club books. But while it looked like she hadn’t moved since Shelby brought her back after an early dinner, she had changed into her new jeans and boots, and right next to her feet sat her horse-headed helmet and the little plastic bucket filled with brushes and other grooming gear. Everything was carefully labeled with her name, as if being bubblegum pink wasn’t enough of a clue.

  “Hey, kiddo. It’s lesson time!”

  Lizzie’s head came up, and Shelby saw her daughter’s battened-down excitement as she grabbed the grooming kit and her helmet and came over. They had visited the barn every day that week, but although the webbed stall guard had let Lizzie poke her fingers through to meet Sassy and Peppermint, it wasn’t anything like actually riding them. Shelby thought it had been good, though, giving Lizzie time to get comfortable with the big animals.

  Now, though, it was time to take the next step.

  As they came up the path to the barn, Stace emerged with a wave, calling, “Hey, Lizzie. Are you ready to ride?” The freckled young woman had her reddish hair braided underneath a blue-and-white baseball cap and was wearing a matching baseball jersey with a running-horse emblem on the chest and her name on the sleeve.

  “I thought we were riding, not playing baseball,” Shelby said.

  “Riding lesson now, softball league at eight.” Stace grinned. “You should come. We could use a catcher.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not great with hand-eye coordination.” Or letting strangers throw things at her. Besides, she was planning on helping out with the bonfire later. It wasn’t officially part of her duties, but she had a feeling that Krista and Gran could use another set of hands. “I appreciate the invite, though.”

  “Maybe next week.” Stace winked. “There are a few single guys there I bet would love to meet you.”

  No, thanks. I’m sticking to Rule Twelve. “How about we meet some ponies, instead?”

  “The good news is that horses and men aren’t mutually exclusive. At least not out here in cowboy country.” Stace led the way into the barn, gesturing for Shelby and Lizzie to follow. Once inside, she held out a hand to Lizzie. “So, what do you say? You want to learn how to halter Peppermint and lead him out of his stall?”

  Lizzie hesitated, but at an encouraging nudge from Shelby, crossed the short distance to Stace’s side. She glanced back a couple of times.

  “I’ll be right here,” Shelby assured her.

  “I love your helmet,” Stace said, getting Lizzie’s attention. “How about you put it on? It’s a good idea to wear one all the time when you’re around horses, not just when you’re riding them.”

  Shelby started forward to help, but Stace held up a hand to stop her. “No. No offense, but she needs to do this on her own.” To Lizzie, she said, “I get that you’ve got SM, and I won’t pester you about talking. But I do need to know that you can follow my instructions, because that’s how you’re going to learn how to ride. More, you’re going to have to communicate here—not with me, but with Peppermint. You need to tell him when to stop, when to go, when to turn, and what direction to go . . . not with words, but with your reins and your legs. So . . . do you think you can do that for me?”

  Shelby held her breath. She didn’t remember the last time Lizzie had “talked” to a stranger, even just with yes and no. But maybe—hopefully—the horses would be the key.

  After a pause, Lizzie put down her brushes, put on her helmet, and fumbled to click the chin strap into place.

  Stace grinned and rapped her knuckles on the top of the helmet. “That’ll do, Lizzie. That’ll do just fine. Okay, let’s get Peppermint out of his stall. Please hand me the halter and lead over there, hanging on his door.”

  Shelby hadn’t realized she was holding her breat
h until it came out in a whoosh, along with the relief of realizing that Gertie was right. Stace was as good as any of the aides who had worked with Lizzie back home. Maybe better, at least in this context. That should’ve been a given, because Gertie was awesome, but still, Shelby had been harboring doubts.

  Now, finally feeling like things were getting under way, she leaned back against the wall, a little surprised to find herself right beside Sassy’s stall. Attracted by the conversation, or maybe the hope of a treat, the chestnut poked her nose through the bars. Shelby stroked the soft nose, feeling the long whiskers tickle her fingers, and said conversationally, “How are you doing, Mama? About ready for that baby to be born, I’m guessing.”

  “Any time now,” Stace put in. “She’s at three hundred and twenty days. The average is three forty, but it’s a pretty big range. It’s more about development than actual timing with horses, as foals cook until they’re done, and then they come out. I’ve seen some mares go over the year mark.”

  “Ouch.”

  “They didn’t look too happy about it, that’s for sure. And a couple of those babies were huge.” Turning back to Lizzie, Stace showed her how to hold the halter. “Okay, now we’re going to open the stall door, and you’re going to put the halter on his head. Ready? Here we go.” She opened the stall door fully to reveal Peppermint. Just as he had every time they patted him through the stall guard, the fat roan pony stood like a statue, ears pricked forward as if to say, “Ooh. I like little girls!”

  But suddenly, Lizzie’s face went rigid and her knuckles whitened on the halter.

  Shelby’s stomach gave an uh-oh clench. Come on, baby. You can do it.

  “That’s it,” Stace said brightly. “Just put the loop part around his nose, pull it up, and buckle the strap behind his ears.” She waited it out, but after a minute Peppermint snorted, dropped his head, and started picking at the wispy remnants of his afternoon hay, losing interest in the little person who stood frozen at his door.

  Which was one of the challenges of using animals in therapy. They had minds of their own and attention spans that were often far shorter than those of the people involved in the process. More, they were less predictable when they were bored and looking for entertainment.