Samirah's Ride Page 2

  “You don’t think she’ll pick on Sami, do you, Dad?”

  “Horses have their own way of sorting themselves out. What’s important for them is knowing where they stand in the group. An outsider shakes them up, so it can be a little rough for everybody at first.”

  “Especially for the new girl.” Jasper reached around her father to pat my flank.

  “Don’t worry, Jasper. Magpie will keep everybody straight. And I think Chief already has a crush on Sami, don’t you? All the other horses like him, so if he takes to her, that’ll help.”

  As they talked, Red unlatched the pasture gate. It was Sunday—the herd’s day of rest—and everyone had been fed. I was the only object of interest, and as I felt all of the strange eyes examining me, I suddenly had an urge to bolt. But where to? I was no longer a member of my mother’s herd. This was my home now. I arched my neck, flared my nostrils, and gave a brief whinny . . . but I’m afraid it was of challenge, not of supplication. Immediately, I saw the ears of the black-and-white mare at the forefront of the group swivel backward. Magpie was not pleased by my brief declaration of independence.

  I took a closer look at my new leader. Magpie was a well-muscled, powerful pinto mare who, despite her average size, always carried Red effortlessly. I already knew he doted on her, in his own way, almost as much as Jasper fussed over me. She was his only mount. I had watched them together and been impressed by their harmony of purpose, the near-seamless meshing of cue and response, a task set and its fulfillment. I had seen horses and humans working together my whole life—all three years of it—but, having yet to be ridden, it still seemed strange to me how the partnership was achieved. I told myself it didn’t frighten me—especially since the human I would eventually carry would be Jasper—but it was still an unexperienced mystery, this conjoining of horse and person. And it was one that Magpie knew and practiced to its utmost. I must respect her, I thought. Another part of me protested: But I am Sola’s daughter!

  Magpie’s ears remained pinned as Red closed the gate behind us. Her white markings covered half her face—an outsize blaze—so one light blue eye examined me from a background of glossy black, the other from snowy white. I had never seen such markings before, but my admiration was dampened by the imperious, annoyed expression the colors framed.

  “An Arabian,” the pinto snorted. “Get away from here. We’re watering.”

  I froze. We hadn’t even sniffed each other yet! I still had my halter on! Red was standing right next to us, and she was ordering me away!

  Red told Jasper to stay outside the pasture, so she found a perch on the lowest slat of the fence to watch the meeting. As I faced the herd, I wished that she was by my side.

  Red unbuckled the halter and eased it from my head, murmuring gentle reassurances and stroking my neck. Then he stepped away from me, toward Magpie. He gave her a carrot from his pocket and ran an affectionate hand down her crest.

  “Here’s Sami, old girl. Show her the ropes and don’t let the other horses bully her too much. She’s young, like you were once.” And with those words, Red opened the pasture gate and went out. The rattling of the chain as he secured the fence made me jump.

  From the look on Magpie’s face, Red’s words had had little effect on her opinion of me. Her ears were still swiveled back and she swished her long black tail in a marked manner. I took a sideways stride, away from her, but I was hemmed in by the rest of the herd, who regarded me with a not-unfriendly curiosity.

  “Hullo, Sami.” Chief nodded. He was a tall, stocky bay with a big head and almost comically large ears that gave his homely face an innocent expression. I breathed in his scent—earthy, warm, and quite male—and nickered an acknowledgment of his greeting. The other horses—seven in all, plus Magpie and Chief—seemed to want to approach, but as I watched them glance between me and the lead mare, I knew that they were cautious of moving forward without Magpie’s approval.

  When you become acquainted with the lead mare, your position within the herd will fall naturally into place. The other horses will take their cue from her.

  My mother was certainly right about that, but she hadn’t said anything about what to do if the lead mare didn’t like me!

  Magpie must have sensed that the herd was awaiting her next move. With a short, high blast—more explosion than whinny—she again commanded me to stay away from the water trough. Well, I wasn’t thirsty, anyway. I took another crab step and eased around the edge of the group, keeping my distance from the horse closest to me, a dun mustang who was ridden by Miz M. From my paddock, I had watched this horse—called Buck—with interest. There was something not quite trained about him, an energy that I responded to. I wanted to make his acquaintance, but this did not seem to be the moment.

  “Go!” Magpie blasted again, and this time she snaked her neck toward me in a way that clearly added, Or I will bite you! Now I was afraid. I bolted away from the herd. I could hear Jasper’s dismayed voice behind me as I cantered toward the hills:

  “Magpie chased her off! How mean!”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. As I slowed my strides and looked back toward the other horses taking turns at the trough (Magpie, of course, was first), I suddenly felt very lonely. The pasture was large, the grass abundant, the view splendid—but unless I gained a place with my new family, I could not enjoy it.

  I was very young then, but I can still remember the ache I felt as I watched the other horses swishing flies and grazing companionably together. Only Magpie held herself apart, her eyes fixed on me. We both stood like that for a long time.

  . . .

  The first week was terrible. I felt like an outcast—I was an outcast—and I quite simply had no idea what to do about it. I spent my days moping along the most distant edge of the herd’s range. I watered at the far-off creek, not the trough, and I couldn’t bring myself to go near the common food buckets. Luckily the grass was more than enough for my needs; after all, I wasn’t working like the others and had no real appetite for oats.

  Everyone was working now, humans and horses alike. In my solitary rambles, I watched the arrival of the guests that Jasper had dreaded—one older pair and one family with two children. They moved into two of the cottages and soon Chief and Peach were leading trail rides, Red was heading fishing expeditions, and Bull was helping the young boys learn how to sit a horse. Jasper and Miz M seemed swallowed up by the main house. During the day, I caught glimpses of Jasper gathering vegetables from the kitchen garden and cleaning tack in the shade of the barn. The expression on her small, usually dirty face looked as miserable as I felt. She visited me early in the morning before starting her chores, and at night after sunset. She had (and still has) a special whistle that she used to call me—a long, high note followed by three short, lower notes—and once I learned that that birdlike song meant Jasper, companionship, and carrots, my spirits lifted as soon as I heard it. Those notes cut through my loneliness like a sunbeam.

  We consoled each other during those confidential sessions by the fence. Sometimes we stood in silence, Jasper gazing upward at the stars while I breathed in the evening air, fragrant with juniper and sweet anise. Those nights, my whole being was filled to the brim. During the day, lonely and with nothing else to occupy me, I often released my frustrations by running, especially when the herd was taken out to be saddled for work. As they were led through the gate one by one, I would gallop the fence line, whinnying to Chief, even to Buck, willing my body forward, faster and faster in a display of . . . I don’t know what. All I knew was that running eased the pressure around my heart. They watched me when I ran, humans and horses alike, and if Jasper was outside to see me, she cheered and clapped and jumped up and down like a grasshopper. Drinking the air, stretching my legs farther and farther, feeling the blood surge through me—I was, in those moments, free.

  But a horse needs a herd. Room to run, carrots, wind clear and cool as river water—none of these things can make up for not having a place with other horses. The
only thing that came close was Jasper, and perhaps that’s another reason why we’ve always been so bound up together. For a while, she was my herd.

  As the days passed, I spent less time moping and more time watching the other horses. The herd was a mix of geldings and mares, which took some getting used to. (My mother’s herd was only mares—the stallions and the geldings were kept in separate fields and had their own barns.) Besides Chief and Buck, there was an old palomino gelding named Sunny. The humans only used him for the easier trail rides, and the horses gave him a respect second only to that they showed Magpie. Wherever he went, he was sure to be shadowed by Cricket, a quiet chestnut mare with a white stripe and one white stocking, or Irish, a tall, graceful bay mare who, besides me, was the newest to the ranch and lowest in the pecking order. The last mare, Julep, was Magpie’s second in command, and stuck to her like a burr.

  Sunny, however, wasn’t really the dominant gelding. He was beloved, and emulated, but he never tried to control the herd. That was Buck, who seemed to play stallion to Magpie’s lead mare. Buck may be gentled, trained to carry Miz M and to be a respectful member of the Cold Creek family, but domestication had not diluted his mustang blood. Later on, after I’d gotten to know him better, I marveled at the small dun’s keen senses and nose for danger. He seemed to have a heightened awareness of his surroundings, and a ferocious drive to protect the herd. This led to some run-ins with Magpie, who most decidedly did not see a cougar in every shadow or a potential lightning strike in every rainstorm. She accused him of nervousness; he thought of it as preparedness.

  And then there was the Artful Dodger, who, if he’d been allowed, would have taken over the whole operation and set himself up as king. I loved watching Dodger—it was my primary pleasure, outside of galloping and visiting with Jasper. He was a trim, perfectly proportioned black pony with four white socks, a face dished rather like my own, and a heart full of mischief. He constantly challenged both Magpie and Buck for precedence, but no one took him seriously. Indeed, they mostly indulged him as if he were a precocious colt, unless he went too far, as he did one evening after the herd, tired from a long day, was settling into its nighttime graze.

  Dodger certainly had worked as much as everyone else—he had a lesson with one of the boy guests and had carried the other on a lengthy trail ride. Yet he trotted with a bossy little bounce straight over to Sunny, nipped the palomino’s distinguished rump, and drove him away from Irish, with whom he’d been swishing flies. Sunny merely gazed mildly at his usurper, while Irish looked startled, but Magpie had seen the exchange, and Magpie disapproved. There was a scuffle, a small yelp-like neigh, and then Sunny and Irish were reunited and Dodger reappeared on the other side of the field, grazing unconcernedly. I admired that. Dodger was often down, but he was never out.

  I suppose that it was only natural that the pony was the first to break the prohibition against me. Chief, of course, always said hello, but from a distance. His attitude was clear: He liked me, looked forward to having me in the herd, but was perfectly content to wait for Magpie’s directive. Buck’s desires were, if anything, even more obvious. He took to standing on the crest of one of the many hills that framed the pastureland and trumpeting wildly to me. It translated best as Mare! See what a fine horse I am! You are mine! Come! Magpie ignored these outbursts, and so did I. As my mother once remarked, mares often suffer for the foolish things a stallion (or gelding) tells them to do without the lead mare’s permission. They are simply too addled by the sense of their own wonderfulness to appreciate consequences.

  Dodger, really, was no better. He was just cleverer. It was Sunday, a week since I’d been let into the main pasture, and I was standing in the creek, swishing flies by myself, and staring into the green tangle of willow and fern that framed the banks. Suddenly I noticed two bright brown eyes peering at me through the branches. The low eye level, the insouciant sparkle, the bold gaze—it could only be Dodger. It had been so long since I’d had any significant contact with another horse, I’m afraid I was rather at a loss. Chastening to admit, spirited and independent as I’ve always fancied myself, how low I had been brought by Magpie’s banishment.

  “Chase me?” was all that Dodger said. And he promptly turned tail and slipped between the trees. I automatically took a few steps forward, but then stopped. It could be a trick. Dodger could be trying to tempt me out to get me in trouble. I was standing indecisively, my front legs on the bank, my back hooves still in the creek, when I heard approaching hoofbeats.

  “Bet I can beat you,” the pony chirruped.

  That was simply too much.

  I leaped from the creek bed, eyes fixed on the small black hindquarters weaving with Dodger’s characteristic springy gait through the trunks. Pony, you are no match for an Arabian, I thought. He had the advantage in the woods, being smaller and more familiar with the trails, and I plunged through the foliage, eager to reach the great open field where I could run freely.

  Finally I was through the last of the trees. But where was Dodger? I pulled myself up, looking confusedly right and left. Surely he hadn’t managed to put that much distance between us. Was this indeed a trick?

  The nip on my flank confirmed it. I startled violently, but when I turned to meet my foe, I saw that merry face laughing at me.

  “Catch me if you can!” And away Dodger went.

  Of course he couldn’t beat me, and I’m not sure he really tried. I caught up with him easily and returned his nip. He stopped in his tracks and changed directions. I cut him off and we play-reared at each other. Over the hills, across the great expanse of rippling grass, we whirled and tagged and jostled and galloped. Finally even the seemingly inexhaustible Dodger grew tired, and he slowed to a jog. I cantered in circles around him, tossing my head, arching my neck, and teasing him to my heart’s content. I felt wonderful. My muscles burned, my nostrils were open wide, and I had a friend by my side. We had played, and oh, I hadn’t played for such a long time!

  I was so caught up in our banter (I’m faster! So? I’m smarter. Are not! Am too. Are not! Am too, and besides, now you’re my mare. I’m nobody’s mare! Are too. Am not! etc.) that I wasn’t paying much attention to which direction we were going. So when we reached the crest of one of the ranch’s many low buttes, I immediately pulled up and snorted in surprise. There, standing to attention as if they were expecting us (and they probably did hear our noisy tussling), was the herd. No one was grazing. No one was swishing flies. Manes tousled in the breeze, an alert, wary expression on each face, the eight horses stood still as stones on the windy crest. My own body was not so perfectly controlled. I tossed my head, crab-stepped sideways, toward Dodger, and skittered nervously back and forth, more chicken than Arab. I wished then that I had Dodger’s irresistible nonchalance—and I wonder now what it might be like to inhabit his funny, confident pony self. But I was a wild young creature, missing her mother, proud and frightened, not yet a full member of Jasper’s world, and unwanted, it seemed, by the family that stood before me.

  Dodger moved to join the other horses, leaving me alone once again. As he reached Irish, lifting his dainty head to touch muzzles with the tall bay filly, who towered several hands above him, Magpie turned; and the herd, on her signal, began to walk away from me. I watched them go, an aching sorrow once more binding up my heart, which had just beat so freely, running the hills with Dodger. When—if ever—would my sentence end?

  And then, out of the blue, Magpie threw a glance over her shoulder at me. “Well, come on,” she whinnied. I stared back at her, shock rooting me in place. “If you won’t keep up, we’ll leave you behind,” she promised crisply, as if I were a lollygagging foal.

  I looked bewilderedly to Dodger, but he was still involved with Irish, taking advantage of her low position in the herd to play stallion, herding her into last place of the loose line of horses now making their way to the pasture’s gate. It was Chief who answered my silent, unbelieving question.

  “That’s right, Sami girl,”
he snorted. “Come along now.”

  Relief and joy coursed through me with the warmth of the spring’s first mellow sun, the one that gives true heat as well as light. I leaped forward, toward the herd, toward my family, to the place where I belonged. It was right behind Irish, making me the lowest and youngest and least important—and happiest—filly at Cold Creek Ranch.

  CHAPTER 3

  Her forelock is a net, her forehead a lamp lighted,

  Illumining the tribe

  You might say that was the Day I learned humility. But that would be too simple. Humility, after all, is not one of my notable traits. Nor is it one of Jasper’s, and if we’re still counting reasons why we’re such good partners, that’s another.

  And, of course, we grew up together. As I mentioned, I was three and she was nine when we met. She was already a fine rider, Dodger and Cricket being her usual mounts, but I had had nothing heavier than a winter blanket on my back, and wouldn’t for a couple more years. If Jasper and I are not known for humility, we’re not exactly renowned for patience, either, but as much as she wanted to ride me, and as eager as I was to grow up, I wouldn’t exchange a single moment from our early time together. It was the beginning of the games.

  You might not think a horse has very much imagination, or historical sense, and I can’t speak for every breed, but Arabians are highly developed in both areas. Perhaps it’s a product of our close tie to humans, perhaps we’re simply cleverer than most horses. I suspect both. Of course there are all sorts of ways for horses to be intelligent (and unintelligent). Buck, for example, had an uncanny instinct for sensing change—change of weather, of habitat, of human activity. This made him act on the twitchy side, when, say, his prediction of a dire storm turned out to be a gentle summer shower, or when the humans making alarming sounds along the pasture’s fence line turned out to be repairing it, rather than plotting to tear a hole through the boards and steal the mares. Sunny and Magpie, on the other hand, were very intelligent about human communication, especially when being ridden. I suppose that had something to do with how strongly they both trusted all of the men and women of the ranch, much more so than any of the other horses. To be sure, we all trusted Red and Miz M and Peach and Bull, but Sunny and Magpie would calmly walk through a burning barn if commanded. There was something preternatural in their ability to suppress their flight instincts, to be almost more than horse for their human companions.