his wristwatch, waiting for a decision.
The horse’s name was Red Sultan’s Big Boy. Sired of Red Sultan and the dame Misty Blue Spring Meadows. Lisa’s own horse, a pinto gelding, had died the week before, and Lisa hadn’t stopped crying until moments ago. She coaxed her father. “He’s an investment.”
“Six thousand,” interjected the livestock broker. The man seemed to be sizing up Randall and Lisa as if they were a couple of hayseeds who wouldn’t have two dimes to rub together. The broker said that since the housing boom had tanked, people were scuttling cabin cruisers or setting them adrift because they couldn’t afford mooring costs. The price of hay was sky-high, and boarding fees were making a horse something plain people could no longer afford.
Randall had never seen the ocean, but the broker’s statement brought to mind a flotilla of yachts and cabin cruisers and speedboats. People’s dreams and aspirations, all cast adrift. A Sargasso of abandoned pleasure craft, banding together in some empty expanse of open water.
“I’ve seen a lot of deals,” the broker added, “but six grand is dirt cheap.”
Randall was no expert in horse flesh, but he knew a deal. The stallion was so docile it ambled over and let Lisa stroke its muzzle. Using her thumb, she lifted its lips and inspected its gums and teeth—the horse equivalent of kicking the tires. Randall’s common sense told him to keep looking. To check as far afield as Chickasaw County, visiting breeders and stables, and to keep looking at teeth. Compared to what he’d seen in his life, this horse ought to sell for thirty thousand dollars, even in a depressed market.
Lisa tested the smoothness of its coat against her cheek. “He’s the one from the video.”
If she meant the
Black Beauty
video or the
Black Stallion
or
National Velvet,
Randall couldn’t decide. There were so many sappy stories about girls in love with horses. As of late, she’d acted so grown-up. It felt nice to see her excited, especially since her horse, Sour Kraut, had taken sick so fast. She’d been riding the pinto only the weekend before. Cherry leaves could poison a horse, too many of them, with their arsenic. Or eating nettles. Even wet, red clover. During the week Lisa lived with her mother in town. Weekends, she came out to his place for visitation. The pinto had looked fine Sunday night. Monday morning, when Randall had gone to feed him, poor Sour Kraut had been collapsed, foam gushing from his mouth, dead.
Lisa didn’t say as much, but her father suspected that she blamed him. She’d called Tuesday, a pleasant surprise. She almost never called midweek. He had to tell her the gelding was dead. She didn’t cry, not at first. Probably on account of the shock. On the phone she’d sounded quiet and faraway, maybe angry. Already hating him. A teenager desperate to place blame. Her silence worried Randall more than sobbing would have.
The next Friday, he’d driven into town to collect her, and by then she was full-out bawling. Little girl wailing. Halfway back to his place, she’d dashed away her tears and brought out the phone from her overnight bag. She’d asked, “Tomorrow, can we go to the Conway Livestock Brokers? Please, Daddy?”
Lisa didn’t waste anybody’s time. Saturday morning, she made him hook up the trailer to his rig. Before they’d even seen a horse, she’d nagged him to drive faster, demanding, nonstop, “Do you have your checkbook? Are you sure? Let me see it, Daddy.”
The Arabian didn’t toss its head or paw the ground. In the paddock, it stood passively as Randall and the broker walked around it, lifting and inspecting each hoof. It seemed so even-tempered, Randall had to wonder if it was drugged. It seemed depressed. Almost defeated. To his way of thinking, they needed a vet to check out the animal. An Arabian this subdued had to be sick. Lisa didn’t want to wait.
The divorce settlement had left him with the home place,
The horse’s name was Red Sultan’s Big Boy. Sired of Red Sultan and the dame Misty Blue Spring Meadows. Lisa’s own horse, a pinto gelding, had died the week before, and Lisa hadn’t stopped crying until moments ago. She coaxed her father. “He’s an investment.”
“Six thousand,” interjected the livestock broker. The man seemed to be sizing up Randall and Lisa as if they were a couple of hayseeds who wouldn’t have two dimes to rub together. The broker said that since the housing boom had tanked, people were scuttling cabin cruisers or setting them adrift because they couldn’t afford mooring costs. The price of hay was sky-high, and boarding fees were making a horse something plain people could no longer afford.
Randall had never seen the ocean, but the broker’s statement brought to mind a flotilla of yachts and cabin cruisers and speedboats. People’s dreams and aspirations, all cast adrift. A Sargasso of abandoned pleasure craft, banding together in some empty expanse of open water.
“I’ve seen a lot of deals,” the broker added, “but six grand is dirt cheap.”
Randall was no expert in horse flesh, but he knew a deal. The stallion was so docile it ambled over and let Lisa stroke its muzzle. Using her thumb, she lifted its lips and inspected its gums and teeth—the horse equivalent of kicking the tires. Randall’s common sense told him to keep looking. To check as far afield as Chickasaw County, visiting breeders and stables, and to keep looking at teeth. Compared to what he’d seen in his life, this horse ought to sell for thirty thousand dollars, even in a depressed market.
Lisa tested the smoothness of its coat against her cheek. “He’s the one from the video.”
If she meant the
Black Beauty
video or the
Black Stallion
or
National Velvet,
Randall couldn’t decide. There were so many sappy stories about girls in love with horses. As of late, she’d acted so grown-up. It felt nice to see her excited, especially since her horse, Sour Kraut, had taken sick so fast. She’d been riding the pinto only the weekend before. Cherry leaves could poison a horse, too many of them, with their arsenic. Or eating nettles. Even wet, red clover. During the week Lisa lived with her mother in town. Weekends, she came out to his place for visitation. The pinto had looked fine Sunday night. Monday morning, when Randall had gone to feed him, poor Sour Kraut had been collapsed, foam gushing from his mouth, dead.
Lisa didn’t say as much, but her father suspected that she blamed him. She’d called Tuesday, a pleasant surprise. She almost never called midweek. He had to tell her the gelding was dead. She didn’t cry, not at first. Probably on account of the shock. On the phone she’d sounded quiet and faraway, maybe angry. Already hating him. A teenager desperate to place blame. Her silence worried Randall more than sobbing would have.
The next Friday, he’d driven into town to collect her, and by then she was full-out bawling. Little girl wailing. Halfway back to his place, she’d dashed away her tears and brought out the phone from her overnight bag. She’d asked, “Tomorrow, can we go to the Conway Livestock Brokers? Please, Daddy?”
Lisa didn’t waste anybody’s time. Saturday morning, she made him hook up the trailer to his rig. Before they’d even seen a horse, she’d nagged him to drive faster, demanding, nonstop, “Do you have your checkbook? Are you sure? Let me see it, Daddy.”
The Arabian didn’t toss its head or paw the ground. In the paddock, it stood passively as Randall and the broker walked around it, lifting and inspecting each hoof. It seemed so even-tempered, Randall had to wonder if it was drugged. It seemed depressed. Almost defeated. To his way of thinking, they needed a vet to check out the animal. An Arabian this subdued had to be sick. Lisa didn’t want to wait.
The divorce settlement had left him with the home place,
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