8. Bonnie
BONNIE
On Saturday morning, Gage finds me in Mercy’s stall at home with a brush in my hand. Beryl drove me back last night with Mercy in her trailer, since our rig had to wait for Gage and the bay. She stayed until the mare was settled and made me eat before she left.
He closes the barn door behind him. The sound makes me look up.
“That cannot happen again,” he says.
I put the brush down. “Which part?”
“Taking a microphone and accusing us in front of everybody.”
Us. I look at the dust on his boots until I can trust my voice.
“You mean you and Tawny.”
“I mean everyone trying to put on an event.”
“I asked you to correct them.”
“And you couldn’t wait.”
Mercy shifts away from me. I have been brushing the same place for too long. I leave my hands at my sides.
“You put me below the platform.”
“You had the horse.”
“You told me to bring her.”
He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. “Can we get through one conversation without going over every word I said?”
I look at him then. “You keep asking me to forget the part we’re talking about.”
His phone vibrates. He checks it before putting it in his pocket.
“The tour truck’s coming this afternoon. They need the equipment for the first leg.”
“Mercy stays here.”
“That’s what we need to discuss.”
“There is nothing left to discuss. She isn’t going.”
He looks down the aisle, where a groom has stopped outside the feed room. Gage waits until the man goes inside.
“Tawny needs to practice on the horse the audience expects.”
“She rode the gray last night.”
“She rode adequately. Mercy’s the horse in the advertisements.”
“Then use different advertisements.”
“You know what it costs to change everything this late.”
“I know what she cost me when I bought her. I know how many early mornings I put into her. Neither of those things made you ask before you promised her away.”
He sets his hat on the stall door.
“I am trying to keep us from making this worse.”
“Then tell me she’s staying.”
“For now.”
I pick up the brush and put it in the bucket. “I can have her moved somewhere nobody needs to qualify the answer.”
He catches the stall door before I close it.
“All right. Mercy stays here.”
“Nobody loads her. Nobody brings her to the truck to see whether I change my mind.”
“I won’t let anybody load her.”
I wait. He lets go of the door.
I have heard him promise difficult things and watched him keep them.
When the first barn flooded, he stayed awake for two nights moving horses.
When I wanted to compete after an injury, he drove me to appointments and waited until I was done.
I want to recognize that man badly enough that it hurts to look at this one.
I turn toward him.
“I need that to be true.”
“It is.”
He waits near the door, hoping I will come to him. I can see that much without wanting to give it. Eventually he puts on his hat and goes back toward the office.
I call Beryl when he is out of hearing. We speak about yesterday first. She lets me say the humiliating parts.
Then I ask whether she could help me move Mercy if I needed to.
“To my place?”
“For one night. Cleo has room for us in Colorado.”
“Does Gage know?”
“I haven’t decided to go.”
Beryl is quiet for a moment. “I can have the trailer ready.”
I thank her. Then I put Mercy out in the small paddock and go inside to sleep.
The sound of the truck wakes me before three.
I lie still, hoping it is a feed delivery. Then I hear the reverse alarm and remember the tour equipment.
From the bedroom window, I can see the polished black rig beside the loading area. Gage stands with Dewey near the open ramp. Tawny stands on the bottom of the ramp, wearing jeans and a white shirt. She puts a hand on Gage’s forearm as she speaks. He bends closer to hear her.
A groom comes around the barn with Mercy.
I get my boots on without socks. By the time I reach the back door, I am angry enough to have trouble with the latch.
The groom stops when he sees me. Mercy has an ear turned toward the ramp.
“Where are you taking her?”
“Mr. Redfern said she’s going on the first leg.”
Gage is close enough to hear him. I look at my husband.
“You promised me.”
“And then we went through the schedule.”
“You and Tawny.”
“Yes.”
The groom looks down at the rope. I hold out my hand, and he gives it to me.
“Close the ramp,” I tell the groom. “Mercy isn’t loading.”
He looks at Gage instead of moving. That small hesitation makes my face burn. Yesterday I was teaching people in front of an audience. Today I cannot give an instruction about my own horse without a man waiting to see whether my husband approves it.
“Do what Bonnie says,” Dewey tells him quietly.
The groom waits for Tawny to step off the ramp, then raises it. Gage comes toward me.
“The first leg is a few days. You’ll have her back before you need her.”
“You told me she was staying.”
“I’ve changed the arrangement.”
I take a step backward with Mercy. “You don’t have an arrangement. You have a promise you made to me this morning.”
Tawny comes closer. “We’re trying to save something here. You can’t use a horse to make him choose.”
“You asked him again after he told me no.”
“I asked him to be practical.”
“She’s right,” Gage says. “You’ve got months before you can run Mercy. Keeping her standing in a paddock because you’re angry with Tawny doesn’t help anybody.”
Mercy touches my sleeve with her nose. I rub her forehead once, because she is the only one here who has asked me for something I can give.
“She’s been working with the staff all week,” I say. “You know that. I’m not putting her in a field and forgetting she exists.”
“Then let her work.”
“For Tawny.”
“For the business.”
The truck driver watches from his cab. Gage moves closer and lowers his voice, as though discretion is something he can still offer me.
“Call Tawny tonight. Tell her you were wrong about what she wanted, and let us get on the road. We can put this week behind us.”
“You want me to apologize while you send my horse with her.”
“I want you to stop punishing everyone.”
I look past him to the house. The window above the porch is open. Our daughter has a dresser coming for the room behind it. I picked it after comparing drawers and finishes as though choosing carefully enough would make everything safe.
I lead Mercy to the paddock. Gage follows.
“Bonnie, I’m talking to you.”
“I heard you.”
“Then help me.”
The old impulse starts before I can stop it. There is a chestnut in the west barn Tawny might like. I could call its owner. I know how to make this easier for him.
Then I see Tawny at the truck, waiting for my husband to bring back the answer she wants.
I open the gate and let Mercy through. She goes to the water tub.
“I’m going to Beryl’s in the morning.”
Gage looks at the mare before he looks at me.
“You’re leaving over a tour?”
“I’m leaving because you told me yes to get me quiet, then did what you wanted as soon as I went upstairs.”
“You know that’s not fair.”
“I know exactly what you promised.”
I call Beryl before I can retreat from what I have said. When she answers, I ask her to bring the trailer in the morning. I need time to pack. I need to make certain the other horses have what they need.
Gage listens to the call. I tell Beryl I’ll stay here tonight and be ready when she arrives.
“You’re not taking Mercy,” he says after I hang up.
I close the paddock gate and put the rope over my arm.
“She’s coming with me.”