Still Lives(28)

She’s never been out at night? It’s not okay. Yet under Rick’s and Greg’s gazes, my defiant little-sister self kicks in: I want a different horse, but I’m not going to admit it in front of the boys.

“Rick!” calls the ranch owner from across the swirl of horses and riders. “We need six more mounted over here.”

“S’okay?” Rick says to me again.

“I’ll switch with her,” Greg calls from beside the giant shoulder of Cheyenne.

“I’m fine.” I take Babe’s reins. Greg once had a rich girlfriend who played polo, but I bet he’s never ridden on a real trail in his life.

I swing into the saddle. The musty warm smell of horse, the way Babe’s dark spine bobs beneath me, makes my Vermont childhood come back again in a rush of grassy memories. We did own a horse. He was old and hated going down hills, so mostly I curried him until the air in the barn shone with his red-gold hair.

Babe stomps and pulls at her bit, but I hold her back, waiting for others to rise into their saddles. Finally we all start moving, led by Rick, and I get absorbed in the business of steering a large creature. Greg leans across from his own mount and asks me if I’m sure I’m all right. It’s then, in that weird swaying second as Babe lurches from Cheyenne, that I really regard Greg and see through his polite mask to the hollows gathering under his eyes and cheekbones. His skin is the color of cement.

“You need to eat,” I say to him. “You’re not eating.”

He smiles remorsefully at this. “Maggie,” he says.

But then Rick is whistling at us all to follow him out the ranch gate, and the whirl of horses distracts me again. By the time I reach the dirt road leading to the ridgeline, we’re in the last throes of the sunset. I can’t see the ocean yet—it’s blocked by the rim of hills—but the sun must be close to the Pacific. Our faces are bathed in light, but the shadows have risen as high as our stirrups. The slope’s shrubs are also sunk in shade, and the pebbles that spin from the horses’ footsteps roll beneath their branches and vanish. Part of me can’t believe that I am riding a horse here, in this dusty-green chaparral above sprawling Los Angeles, that this city and this wilderness can coexist, that I can exist on top of this massive uppity animal that carries me. According to Kaye, we’ll be riding a total of five miles tonight, up through the treeless hills and down the other side to eat and drink, and then return.

“It’ll be dark coming back,” the ranch owner shouts, “but don’t worry because the horses all want to get home.” She slams the gate behind us. “Just keep them away from your margaritas.”

Weak laughs scatter over our group, and we’re off. The earth is still sun-warm now, but a damp cool is spreading. I wish I’d brought a jacket.

“Pull to the right to go right,” Rick hollers. “Pull to the left to go left. Give them a little kick if they get slow. Let the horses lead. They know the way.”

I steer Babe after Rick, but suddenly Rick is breaking away to retrieve Yegina, whose dull-eyed brown mare seems fixating on going back to the paddock. Yegina, ordinarily graceful, looks lumpy and lopsided, as if she can’t find the right place to balance.

“No, no. No. Please,” she entreats the mare. “Not that way.”

“Susie, Susie,” Rick clucks, grabbing the reins from Yegina, pulling the horse around. “You got to go out one more time.”

Susie’s slight reversal of course is all Babe needs to get the same idea in her head, and I have to wrench her around to follow the others, too. Her ears whip back and her gait hardens into a stiff, huffy trot, leaving Rick and Yegina in the dust. This is not going well. Up ahead, Kaye whoops again and circles an invisible lasso over her head. Uncle Bud plods beneath her, unaffected. The sun falls another degree, and out of the corner of my eye I spot Greg’s horse coming up alongside me. I’m bracing myself when someone else speaks.

“You’ve had a rough week.” It’s Nelia or Sara, on Greg’s other side. I can’t tell them apart, especially in the fading light. They are both attractive red-haired life coaches, and they’ve cowritten a book that is made up entirely of bullet points.

He ducks his head. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“Do the police have any leads?”

“Apparently I’m their lead,” Greg says tensely.

“Oh, Shaw. As if …” Sara/Nelia trails off. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“Maggie sent me a good name, and I’m talking to her.” He glances over at me. Cheyenne dances to the right, startling Babe, and I fall back before I can reply.

“I just wish they wouldn’t waste their time on me, and would find her instead,” I hear Greg add.

The road narrows to a steep trail that switchbacks up to the ridge. I pull on the reins to keep Babe from crashing into the horses ahead of us. One by one, they start to heave up the channel of dirt and stones. Babe prances from side to side, her ears flitting back. A cool wind starts to blow, and it smells like nightfall.

“It’s just a little hill, Babe,” I squeak.

She cranes her neck and looks longingly down toward the dim red barn now far below.

“You okay, Maggie?” Greg says, but Cheyenne is already carrying him upward.

Dust fills my mouth as Rick surges ahead of us, still holding Susie’s reins, Yegina clinging to the pommel. She gives me a pained smile.