the end of the aisle was a large box stall filled floor to ceiling with hay. Next to it was the tack room. The gray mother horse neighed in the background as I reflexively breathed in the familiar smells of horse and saddle, burnished leather, bridle and hay, humid straw, moist and woody exposed beams.
“Vera?” I whispered, frantic and with more hope than conviction as I neared the closed tack room door. My voice slowly drained of volume until it was little more than the silent formation of letters and rush of adrenaline that pulsated in my throat, thumping along with the sound of scraping nails against the opposite side of the door. Wanting to go back but compelled to go forward, the scratching growing louder with every step, I crept up to the large, heavy wooden door.
Momentarily faltering, I took three steps back. I couldn’t do it. I could not open that door. I was at the outer limits of my courage. This was a job for Camp, not me. The door opened a crack just as I was about to flee. Gasping, I dropped to my knees.
Vera! Her little tricolor face was there in front of me, ears dragging. She was smiling, her low-slung body wriggling with the joy of being found. She bounded toward me, wagging her tail and licking my face, clamping down on the red fringe covering my forehead. “Ouch!” I muttered, trying to extricate my hair from the unforgiving trap of puppy teeth.
“Thank you! Thank you!” I spoke silently to myself and to any god that would listen. Vera finally released my hair and, ignoring my hushed entreaties to stay, wheeled around, her long thick tail accelerating like a windshield wiper, circulating the otherwise dead air, whirring flecks of straw and hay and dust made visible by the sudden incursion of sunlight.
“Come here!” I hissed and darted after her. She stopped abruptly and I tripped over her hind end; lurching forward, I fell with arms outstretched, landing in an undignified splat.
“Dammit!” I lay there stunned, profanities springing up inside of me like internal bruises. I caught sight of something on the floor next to me. A clump of hair, russet hair and amber, the color of tree resin; the tips were wet, as if they had been dipped in crimson dye.
Panicked, I rolled over onto my side, the dull jab of something hard and intrusive poking and resistant against my abdomen. The toe of a riding boot. Scuffed and scratched, well worn—I stared at it long enough, focused on the leather’s matte finish. It took what felt like years for me to generate the courage to look up.
Deep-set black eyes stared down at me where I lay. I realized then that there is a third option to the primitive responses of fight-or-flight—spontaneous brain death. My first sputtering cognitive thought was a decidedly adolescent one: his pants were too short, hovering just above his ankles.
He held his hands out in front of his chest, rubbing them together as if he was warming them over an open fire. Tall and thin, unshaven, neither young nor old, with longish dark hair that curled round his shirt collar, he seemed to be growing, soaring smoothly upward to the rafters, reaching greater heights with each passing moment. Extending his arm, he took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. His palm felt damp and limp, flaccid—something else I’ve learned, a weak handshake isn’t an accurate forecaster of strength of purpose.
I could have pulled free, but I was being held in place by a force greater than anything imposed by his grip.
“Well, now,” Gula said finally. “What are you doing here?” He sounded indiscriminately European, a mishmash of accented inflections, with a subtle British top layer. His gift for dry understatement conferred on him an unsentimental refinement.
Too frightened to speak—a unique experience for me—I looked around for Vera in the hope that she might somehow answer for both of us.
“You need to take better care,” Gula said, as he let me go and leaned his back into one of the
“Vera?” I whispered, frantic and with more hope than conviction as I neared the closed tack room door. My voice slowly drained of volume until it was little more than the silent formation of letters and rush of adrenaline that pulsated in my throat, thumping along with the sound of scraping nails against the opposite side of the door. Wanting to go back but compelled to go forward, the scratching growing louder with every step, I crept up to the large, heavy wooden door.
Momentarily faltering, I took three steps back. I couldn’t do it. I could not open that door. I was at the outer limits of my courage. This was a job for Camp, not me. The door opened a crack just as I was about to flee. Gasping, I dropped to my knees.
Vera! Her little tricolor face was there in front of me, ears dragging. She was smiling, her low-slung body wriggling with the joy of being found. She bounded toward me, wagging her tail and licking my face, clamping down on the red fringe covering my forehead. “Ouch!” I muttered, trying to extricate my hair from the unforgiving trap of puppy teeth.
“Thank you! Thank you!” I spoke silently to myself and to any god that would listen. Vera finally released my hair and, ignoring my hushed entreaties to stay, wheeled around, her long thick tail accelerating like a windshield wiper, circulating the otherwise dead air, whirring flecks of straw and hay and dust made visible by the sudden incursion of sunlight.
“Come here!” I hissed and darted after her. She stopped abruptly and I tripped over her hind end; lurching forward, I fell with arms outstretched, landing in an undignified splat.
“Dammit!” I lay there stunned, profanities springing up inside of me like internal bruises. I caught sight of something on the floor next to me. A clump of hair, russet hair and amber, the color of tree resin; the tips were wet, as if they had been dipped in crimson dye.
Panicked, I rolled over onto my side, the dull jab of something hard and intrusive poking and resistant against my abdomen. The toe of a riding boot. Scuffed and scratched, well worn—I stared at it long enough, focused on the leather’s matte finish. It took what felt like years for me to generate the courage to look up.
Deep-set black eyes stared down at me where I lay. I realized then that there is a third option to the primitive responses of fight-or-flight—spontaneous brain death. My first sputtering cognitive thought was a decidedly adolescent one: his pants were too short, hovering just above his ankles.
He held his hands out in front of his chest, rubbing them together as if he was warming them over an open fire. Tall and thin, unshaven, neither young nor old, with longish dark hair that curled round his shirt collar, he seemed to be growing, soaring smoothly upward to the rafters, reaching greater heights with each passing moment. Extending his arm, he took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. His palm felt damp and limp, flaccid—something else I’ve learned, a weak handshake isn’t an accurate forecaster of strength of purpose.
I could have pulled free, but I was being held in place by a force greater than anything imposed by his grip.
“Well, now,” Gula said finally. “What are you doing here?” He sounded indiscriminately European, a mishmash of accented inflections, with a subtle British top layer. His gift for dry understatement conferred on him an unsentimental refinement.
Too frightened to speak—a unique experience for me—I looked around for Vera in the hope that she might somehow answer for both of us.
“You need to take better care,” Gula said, as he let me go and leaned his back into one of the
Similar Books
