The Bodyguard (51)

This thing’s face was the size of a suitcase.

I’d seen the horses of course—from a distance. In the corral. Looking … less large.

Jack had explained to me the first day how his folks had adopted a half a dozen homeless older horses who needed a pleasant place to live out their lives.

“Kind of a horse retirement home,” he’d explained.

Which was great, in theory.

It’s all fun and games until you have a giant pair of nostrils in your face.

“Hey, friend,” Jack said to the horse, lifting his hands to stroke its nose. “This is Hannah. Don’t bite her.”

Then Jack walked away, and came back with a bag of oats.

He sat back down beside me, reached in, and pulled out a handful.

He flattened his palm, and the horse brought his fuzzy lips right down onto it and hoovered up every last grain.

“Your turn,” Jack said next, offering me the bag.

“No, thank you.”

Jack tilted his head. “You’ve got the scariest job of anybody I know, but you’re afraid of horse lips.”

“It’s not the lips, it’s the teeth.”

Jack started laughing again.

“See?” I said. “You’re laughing again.”

“See?” Jack said, like it was my fault. “You’re hilarious.”

Jack did the next handful himself—but then he bwok-ed like a chicken at me until I finally said, “Fine.”

I reached into the bag, closed my palm around a clump of oats, and held it out toward the horse.

“Keep your hand flat,” Jack said, “so he doesn’t eat your fingers.”

“Not helping,” I said, as the horse whispered his lips over my palm until he’d cleaned his plate.

“Tickles, huh?” Jack said.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“This is Clipper,” Jack said then. “He’s a retired circus horse.”

I looked up at Clipper with new respect.

“We got him when I was in high school,” Jack said. “He was only eight then. He got an injury that was just bad enough to retire … but he was really fine. I spent my senior year doing tricks on him.” Jack patted his neck. “He’s an old man now.”

“What kind of tricks?” I asked.

In response, without a word, Jack got a halter from the tack room and slipped it over Clipper’s head. Then he motioned for me to follow him as he led the horse through the open gate to the paddock.

I stopped at the gate and watched as Jack hoisted and swung himself up onto Clipper’s bare back, and the horse, seeming to know just what to do, shifted from a walk, to a trot, to a gentle canter.

The fence around the paddock was oval-shaped, and they followed the perimeter. Jack held the lead rope in one hand, but he didn’t even have to steer.

“How have you never done a western?” I demanded.

“I know, right? I have ‘horseback riding’ on my résumé.”

“Do you even need a résumé?”

“Nah. But still.”

“You should do a western! This is a total waste of talent.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “If I ever make another movie, I will.”

I was just about to ask him if he would ever make another movie, but then he said, “Get ready.”

Then Jack leaned forward and grabbed two fat fistfuls of hair at the base of Clipper’s mane … and I don’t even know how to describe what he did next: Without the loping horse ever breaking stride, Jack swung off the left side, landed with both feet, bounced back up, slid across the horse’s back, then swung off to the right side, and did the same bounce over there. And then he just kept doing it, back and forth, right and left, bouncing from one side to the other like he was slaloming.

I was so astonished, I couldn’t even make a sound.

I just stood there, gaping.

After a full lap, Jack settled again on Clipper’s back and turned to me to check my reaction.

Clipper was still loping at that steady pace.

“Cool, huh?” Jack said.

All I could muster was, “Be careful!”

“That wasn’t scary,” Jack said then, looking pleased at my concern. Then he said, “This is scary.”

And then, before I could stop him, still holding the lead rope, Jack pressed his hands against Clipper’s withers, leaned forward, and brought his sneakers up to the horse’s back. Then slowly, carefully, as Clipper continued to canter along beneath him, Jack stood up.

He stood up!

Knees bent and arms out, like a surfer.

And Clipper just kept loping around the paddock.

“Amazing, right?” Jack said, when my mute astonishment had gone on too long. “It’s all Clipper. His gait is so smooth, and nothing spooks him. You can do anything. You can hang from his neck. You can do a handstand.”

“Do not do a handstand!” I said.

“Nah,” Jack said. “I’m going to do something better.”

And then, before I could respond, Jack squatted down low—all without the horse ever breaking stride—pushed himself back, and rolled a backward somersault off the horse’s rump, dropping the lead rope as he went, and landing on his feet.