The Horsewoman(10)

“She can’t win often enough on her own horse,” she said.

“She can,” Daniel said. “Just not lately.”

“I’m here,” Becky said from the sofa. “I can hear you two.”

Standing directly behind Becky, Daniel gently put a hand on her shoulder. He hoped she understood that the less she spoke right now, the better it would be.

“Both of you hear me out,” he said. “Please.”

As aware as Mrs. Atwood was of her place with Mr. Gorton, Daniel was even more aware of his place with her. And her daughter. And even her granddaughter.

“I’m listening,” Mrs. Atwood said.

“Same,” Becky said.

He breathed deeply, feeling his shoulders rise and then drop as he slowly let the air out.

“I know Coronado,” he said. “And I do not believe just anybody can ride him.”

“Steve Gorton isn’t talking about just anybody riding the horse,” Mrs. Atwood said. “He’ll shop around and buy his top pick.”

“But that is not necessarily what is best for the horse,” Daniel said.

“Mom’s horse,” Becky said.

“Not now,” Daniel said. “And not for a long time. And maybe, though none of us wants to speak of it, not ever again. But you can ride Coronado. I’ve seen you on him. You fit this horse better than you know.”

“The horse could fit her like a pair of damn riding gloves,” Mrs. Atwood said, spitting out the words the way a horse spits a bit. “Even if I agreed to this, Gorton never will. See all the trophies in that case? This horse is his trophy. And he’s going to want a trophy rider.”

Ahi esta, Daniel thought.

There it is.

“But he does not get to pick the rider,” Daniel said. “You do. It is in the contract.”

“And how do you know that?” Mrs. Atwood said.

“Because you asked me to look at it before you signed it,” Daniel said. “He agreed because we all thought Miss Maggie was going to ride him, all the way to Paris. She was going to be his trophy rider. He knew enough to know she was a star.”

Daniel was right. So was Mrs. Atwood, who had once told him that even people who gave an inch were giving too much.

But the old woman’s voice softened now.

“This horse has greatness in him,” she said. “He can carry the weight riding on him, I know it.”

“So can Becky,” Daniel said.

“I’m still right here,” Becky said.

She stood and walked over to the picture window, facing both of them.

“You can do this,” Daniel said to Becky, then turned to her grandmother and said, “She can do this.”

“You mean finally think of somebody other than herself?” Mrs. Atwood said.

“Taking a semester off from college to help Mom doesn’t qualify?” Becky said.

“This isn’t some side ring on a Saturday morning,” her grandmother said.

“So you’re saying I’d be out of my league?” Becky said.

“This is good,” Daniel said. “You’re getting to it now.”

Daniel watched as Becky put her hands on her hips and looked more like the old woman than ever.

“I don’t want you to let your mother down,” Mrs. Atwood said.

“Don’t you mean let you down? Again?” Becky said. “It’s not Gorton who doesn’t want me on Coronado. It’s you.”

“This isn’t your call, Daniel,” Mrs. Atwood said, the snap back in her voice. “And it’s not my granddaughter’s. It’s mine. You honestly believe that she can do this?”

“Yes.”

“You’re willing to bet your job on that belief? Knowing how much an Olympic champion horse could mean to this family?”

“Yes,” he said.

And she had still not said no. Neither had Becky.

Daniel had never known a family like this, in all the horse business, where most of them were alocado. Cracked.

Becky headed for the front door now.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” Becky said.

“You think that’s going to help get me on your side?” Mrs. Atwood said.

Her granddaughter turned at the door.

“I don’t even know which side that is anymore,” she said.





TEN



I DID THINK about calling my friend Madison, another rider from our barn, and telling her to meet me at the Trophy Room for a drink. We were both twenty-one now. After years of using fake IDs to drink illegally, it seemed almost against the law not to go to bars now.

But I didn’t. I drove to Wellington Medical, even knowing it was past visiting hours. No way Mom was going to be asleep, unless she’d given in and allowed them to slip her the kind of happy pill she said she was going to resist.

No, she’d be lying there in her bed, her brain working a million miles an hour.

When I got to the hospital I bluffed my way past the nursing station on her floor, showing the night nurse the backpack I’d brought with me and saying I’d brought some toiletries my mom had requested, even though my backpack held only my cell phone, lip balm, hairbrush, and a bottle of water.