Excerpt of Appaloosa Summer by Tudor Robins

Chapter One

I’m staring down a line of jumps that should scare my brand-
new show
breeches right off me.

But it doesn’t. Major and I know our jobs here. His is to
read the
combination, determine the perfect take-off spot, and adjust
his
stride accordingly. Mine is to stay out of his way, and let
him
jump.

We hit the first jump just right. He clears it with an
effortless
arc, and all I have to do is go through my mental checklist.
Heels
down. Back straight. Follow his mouth.

“Good boy, Major.” One ear flicks halfway back to
acknowledge my
comment, but not enough to make him lose focus. A strong,
easy
stride to jump two, and he’s up, working for both of us,
holding me
perfectly balanced as we fly through the air.

He lands with extra momentum; normal at the end of a long,
straight
line. He self-corrects, shifting his weight back over his
hocks.
Next will come the surge from his muscled hind end; powering
us both
up, and over, the final tall vertical.

It doesn’t come, though. How can it not? “Come on!” I cluck,
scuff
my heels along his side. No response from my rock solid
jumper.

The rails are right in front of us, but I have no horsepower
—
nothing — under me. By the time I think of going for my
stick, it’s
too late. We slam into several closely spaced rails topping
a solid
gate. Oh God. Oh no. Be ready, be ready, be ready. But how?
There’s
no good way. There are poles everywhere, and leather
tangling, and
dirt. In my eyes, in my nose, in my mouth.

There’s no sound from my horse. Is he as winded as me? I
can’t
speak, or yell, or scream. Major? Is that him on my leg? Is
that why
it’s numb? People come, kneel around me. I can’t see past
them. I
can’t sit up. My ears rush and my head spins. I’m going to
throw up.
“I’m going to …”

I flush the toilet. Swish out my mouth. Avoid looking in the
mirror.
Light hurts, my reflection hurts, everything hurts at this
point in
the afternoon, when the headache builds to its peak.

Why me?

I’ve never lost anybody close to me. My grandpa died before
I was
born, and my widowed grandma’s still going strong at ninety-
four.
She has an eighty-nine-year-old boyfriend. They go to the
racetrack;
play the slots.

If I had to predict who would die first in my life, I would
never,
in a million years, have guessed it would be my fit, strong,
seven-
year-old thoroughbred.

Never.

But he did.

Thinking about it just sharpens the headache, so I press a
towel
against my face, blink into the soft fluffiness.

“Are you OK?” Slate’s voice comes through the door. With my
mom and
dad at work, Slate’s been the one to spend the last three
days
distracting me when I’m awake, and waking me up whenever I
get into
a sound sleep. Or that’s what it feels like.

“Fine.” I push the bathroom door open.

“Puke?”

I nod. Stupid move. It hurts. Whisper instead. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s a big improvement. Just the once today.”

She follows me back to my room. She’s not a pillow-plumper
or quilt-
smoother — I have to struggle into my rumpled bed — but it’s
nice to
have her around. “I’m glad you’re here, Slatey.” I sniffle,
and
taste salt in the back of my throat.

I’m close to tears all the time these days. “Normal,” the
doctor
said. Apparently tears aren’t unreasonable after suffering a
knock
to the head hard enough to split my helmet in two, with my
horse
dropping stone cold dead underneath me in the show ring. I’m
still
sick of crying, though. And puking, too.

“Don’t be stupid, Meg; being here is heaven. My mom and
Agate are
going completely over the top organizing Aggie’s sweet
sixteen.
There are party planning boards everywhere, and her dance
friends
are always over giggling about it too.”

“Just as long as it’s not about me. I don’t want to owe
you.”

“‘Course not; you’re not that great of a best friend.”

The way I know I’ve fallen asleep again, is that Slate is
shaking me
awake. Again.

“Huh?” I open one eye. Squinting. The sunlight doesn’t hurt.
In
fact, it feels kind of nice. I open both eyes.

“Craig’s here.”

I struggle to get my elbows under me, and the shot of pain
to my
head tells me I’ve moved too fast.

“Craig?”

She’s nodding, eyes wide.

“Like our Craig?”

“Uh-huh.”

First my mom canceled her business trip scheduled for the
day after
the accident; now our eighty-dollar-an-hour, Level Three
riding
coach is at my house. “Are you sure I’m not dying, and you
just
haven’t told me?”

“I was wondering the same thing.”

“What am I wearing?” I blink at cropped yoga pants and a t-
shirt I
got in a 10K race pack. It doesn’t really matter — I’ve
never seen
Craig when I’m not wearing breeches and boots; never seen,
or even
imagined him in the city — changing clothes is hardly going
to make
a difference.

Slate leads the way down the stairs, through the hallway and
into
the kitchen, where Craig’s shifting from foot to foot,
reading the
calendar on the fridge. He must be bored if he wants the
details of
my dad’s Open Houses, my mom’s travel itinerary.

“Smoking,” Slate whispers just before Craig turns to me.
And,
technically, she’s right. His eyes are just the right shade
of
emerald, surrounded by lashes long enough to be appealing,
while
stopping short of girly. His cheekbones are high and
pronounced,
just like his jawbone. And his broad, tan shoulders, and the
narrow
hips holding up his broken-in jeans are the natural
trademarks of
somebody who works hard — mostly outside — for a living.

But he’s our riding coach. Craig, and our fifty-five year
old obese
vice-principal (with halitosis), are the two men in the
world Slate
won’t flirt with. I don’t flirt with him, mostly because
I’ve never
met a guy I like more than my horse. Major …

“Hey Meg.” Craig’s quiet voice is a first. The gentle hug.
He steps
back, eyes searching my head. “Do you have a bump?”

I take a deep breath and throw my shoulders back. “Nope.”
Knock my
knuckles on my temple. “All the damage is internal.”

Craig’s brow furrows. “Meg, you can tell me how you really
feel.” No
I can’t. Of course I can’t. Even if I could explain the
emptiness of
losing my three-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week companion, the
guilt at
“saving” him from the racetrack only to kill him in the
jumper ring,
and the take-it-or-leave-it feeling I have about showing
again, none
of that is conversation for a sunny springtime afternoon.

Still, I can offer a bit of show and tell. “I have tonnes of
bruises. And I’ve puked every day so far. And, this is weird
but,
look.” I use my index finger to push my earlobe forward. “My
earring
caught on something and tore right through.”

The colour drains from Craig’s face, and now I think he
might puke.

“Meg!” Slate pokes me in the back. “Sit down with Craig and
I’ll
make tea.”

Craig pulls something out of his pocket, places it on the
table. A
brass plate reading “Major”. The one from his stall door.
“We have
the rest of his things in the tack room. We put them all
together
for you.”

Yeah, because you wanted to rent out the stall. I can’t
blame him.
There’s a massive waiting list to train with Craig. And my
horse had
the consideration to die right at the beginning of the show
season.
Some new boarder had her summer dream come true.

I reach out; turn the plaque around to face me. Craig’s
trained me
too well — tears in one of his lessons result in a dismissal
from
the ring — so now, even with a concussion, I can’t cry in
front of
him. Deep breath. I rub my thumb over the engraved letters
M-A-J-O-
R. “There was nothing that horse couldn’t do.”

Craig sighs. “You’re right. He was one in a million. Have
you
thought about replacing him?”