The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(47)

“Now, now, I can tell you rode before,” Olin said. “You just don’t trust your horse—so he don’t trust you. And you’re too afraid to fall off.”

“I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”

Olin chuckled. “Say you do. Then what? You climb back up and try again.” He stepped back. “Ready? Kick with your heels. You can do it.”

Nastas needed only another grazing swat to break into another trot that had me sliding to the side, grabbing for the saddle horn with my free hand.

“Keep goin’!” Olin called out. “That’s it! You ain’t bouncin’ near as much as you think!”

I grit my teeth. I was still landing hard, fighting the urge to call it quits and yank on the reins again.

This was grim—not at all the joyful experience of my childhood. The horse’s ears had flattened out; he was miserable, too.

I willed myself to try to locate some rhythm, but my entire body had clenched like a fist and refused to unknot. I wasn’t just bouncing in the saddle, but sliding all over it. I knew I couldn’t keep my seat much longer.

Frantic, I bent my knees, pulled up my heels and pressed hard—

And suddenly I wasn’t bouncing anymore, but flying—cresting on rolling waves, up and down, up and down. Nastas had exchanged that punishing gait for a springing gallop.

Olin was shouting as if I’d managed to accomplish something, beyond not getting pitched to the ground.

We circled the corral several times before I reined in again. The horse slowed to that awful trot, but I reined more firmly and he curbed to a walk.

Olin and Begay were outside the corral now, leaning on the top fence rail.

“A good start,” said Olin. “Before you know it, you’ll be stickin’ to him like a burr and won’t need those reins near as much. A good horse and rider—they’re like one animal. You lean and turn, press with your legs, and he’ll read you right enough.”

“So when I bent my knees and pressed—”

“You were tellin’ him, ‘Let’s hightail it!’ So he did.”

“And here I thought I was just hanging on for dear life. Can I give it another go?”


*

Lesson over, Begay rode off toward Morro, leaving me and Olin to ready four stalls in the barn for the new horses.

The others from Begay’s herd were Kilchii, Yas and Tse.

Kilchii, the blood bay, and Yas, the pinto, were no strangers to the farm—Begay apparently would bring them over now and then for trail rides; Olin and Jessie had given up their own horses a long time ago. Kilchii means “Red Boy,” for his deep copper coat. He was Olin’s mount. Jessie’s was Yas, which means “Snow,” because he loves to roll in it.

The third horse, Tse, was the big roan mare, intended for Laurel. Tse was unflappable and solid, Olin said, so her name meant “Rock.”

“They’ll mean a lot more work around here,” I said. “I’ll take it on, in exchange for the lessons.”

“Fine idea,” said Olin.

“I know what you’re doing,” I said.

Olin blinked at me, but said nothing.

“First the café, now this. You’re nudging me out of my rabbit hole.”

“That right?”

“But you have to understand—there are reasons I jumped in there in the first place. And pulled Laurel in with me.”

“I’m a fair listener.”

I shook my head. “Don’t nudge too hard. Just know . . . there are bad things out there.”

Olin gave me a smile. “Don’t forget,” he said. “There’s good things, too.”





The Periwinkle House





The grade school in Morro is a one-room wood-frame structure that came from a mail-order catalog, just like Jessie’s sewing machine. It arrived by boxcar in the 1920s in pieces by the thousands—from the lumber, siding, roof shingles and nails right down to the paint cans and varnish—ready to be assembled on-site. The men of Morro put it together over two days on an acre of land at the edge of town.

It was painted white, and stayed that way for years. It was Bree’s idea to repaint it lavender, with shutters and trim a shade darker, and the front door darker still. Someone called it the Periwinkle House, and the name stuck. It was even printed on a brass plaque by the door.