High Hurdles (14 page)

Lindy dropped the envelopes onto the table and used the fingertips of both hands to rub her temples. “You’d think you could do the little bit I ask of you without being reminded.” The words came out hard and biting.

“But, Mom—”

“No
buts
. You made the mess, you clean it up. That doesn’t seem too much to ask.”

“I thought—”

“No, you didn’t. You never think, you just act.”

“I made dinner for both of us.” DJ reared back at the word
never
.

“You know how I hate a messy kitchen.”

“Yeah, well, excuse me. I thought maybe you’d like something to eat when you got home. Sorry I’m not Gran.”

“You don’t have to bring Gran into this. Your thoughtlessness is between you and me. I raised you to—”

“You never raised me. Gran did. You’re never home—you couldn’t raise a flea.” DJ spun around and headed for the kitchen.

“Darla Jean, you can’t talk to me like that.”

DJ threw the pans in the sink, the clatter making as angry a sound as her stomping.

Better cool it, DJ
, she warned herself. But the fires raging at her mother’s accusations refused to bank.

A glass shattering against the cast-iron skillet in the sink brought her up short. A line of blood trickled from a spot on the back of her hand where a sliver of glass had embedded itself.

Say you’re sorry!
“I’m not sorry,” she muttered into the back of her hand as she sucked the blood out of the wound. She could feel the piece of glass with her tongue.

“If you can’t be polite, you can just go to your room.”

“I’m cleaning up the kitchen, can’t you tell?” DJ let the door of the dishwasher clang open. How would she get the glass out? Blood dripped down over her fingers. Oh, great. What had she done? Cut a vein or something?

Gingerly she picked out the pieces of glass in the bottom of the sink and dropped them in the trash. She couldn’t apply pressure to the wound to make it stop bleeding. She ran cold water from the tap over her hand. Pink blood stained the white enamel. Maybe she’d bleed to death—then she’d find out if her mother really cared. At least there’d be no one around to leave a mess.

The cut stung like fury. “Stop bleeding, you stupid thing.” All the while she tossed stuff in the trash, put dishes in the dishwasher, and scrubbed the frying pan. “I shoulda just had peanut butter. Why’d I try to make something
she
likes? Never does any good anyway.” Her mutterings were drowned out by the running water.

The blood kept dripping.

She wiped up the counters. Each swipe of the dishcloth wiped up watery drops of blood. How long did it take to bleed to death? Could she be so lucky?

Chapter
•
2

“Darla Jean Randall, what have you done now?”

“Cut myself, as if you care.” DJ leaned over the sink. Wasn’t she losing an awful lot of blood?

“Let me look at that.” Mom grasped DJ’s hand, carefully keeping it over the sink. “How did it happen?”

“Broken glass. There’s still a piece in there.” DJ wanted to yank her hand out of her mother’s, but the warm contact felt good.

“Here.” Lindy pulled off several paper towels and bunched them under the dripping hand. “Let’s go up to the bathroom where the light’s better. Maybe we can see the glass then and get it out with tweezers.” Her voice still hadn’t lost its hard edge, but at least she wasn’t yelling.

DJ bit her lip against the pain. How come such a little cut could bleed so much?

Upstairs in the bathroom with good light, a magnifying glass, and steady hands, Mom lifted the glass sliver free and, with both thumbs holding the cut open, sluiced water over it for several minutes.

DJ squinted her eyes against the sting. She would not complain—no matter what. Letting her anger rule her like that made her feel like sticking her head in the toilet bowl and flushing.
Why can’t I control my temper? What’s the matter with me? I pray about it and pray about it, and look what happens
. She didn’t dare glance up because she didn’t want to catch her mother’s gaze in the mirror.

“Here, put some pressure on this while I get out the Band-Aids.” Lindy looked up just as DJ did, and, sure enough, their eyes locked in the mirror.

“Oh, DJ, what are we going to do?” Lindy put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and squeezed.

“I’m sorry I left the mess and then mouthed off. I hate myself when I do that.”

“Join the club. Just because I had a headache was no reason to light into you.” She finished drying DJ’s hand. “How’s it feel?”

“Hurts.” DJ lifted her fingers from the cut so her mother could apply antibiotic ointment and a bandage. “Thanks for getting the glass out. I thought I might bleed to death or something.”

“Thought it or wished it?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. I remember being fourteen and fighting with my mother. Sometimes you remind me so much of me that it scares the bejeebers out of me.”

“You used to fight with Gran?” DJ couldn’t believe her ears. “Gran never fights with anyone. She says a lady never raises her voice.”

“Gran wasn’t always as genteel as she is now. But then, I really knew how to push her buttons. Kinda like you do mine.”

DJ smoothed the ends of the tan plastic strip down with her forefinger.

“When you get a southern woman riled, you’ve got a real problem on your hands.” Lindy rubbed her forehead again. “I need to change and—”

“Mom, you’ve got blood on your suit.” DJ touched the spots on the lower sleeve of the cream silk. “I’m sorry.”

“It’ll come out. How about getting me a glass of water and two aspirins? If your hand works now, that is.”

DJ looked up in time to catch a smile lifting the corners of her mother’s mouth. Her mother was teasing her. Actually trying to make a joke. And after a big fight, too.
Maybe miracles really do happen
.

DJ took the stairs two at a time both down and up. She’d finish cleaning the kitchen later.

“Thanks, dear.” Lindy swallowed the tablets and collapsed on the bed.

“You need anything else?” DJ stuck her hands in her pockets.

“You wouldn’t have a spare million lying around anywhere, would you?”

“Sorry.”

“Good night, then. Guess I’ll just try to sleep this thing off.”

DJ bent down and dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek. The fragrance of expensive perfume filled her nose. “Night.” DJ turned at the door. “Thanks for fixing my hand.”

“You’re welcome.” Eyes closed, Lindy waggled her fingers from their place on top of the covers.

DJ fell asleep promising both herself and her heavenly Father she wouldn’t lose her temper like that again. One thing she was grateful for, her restrictions hadn’t been extended. Was that thanks to the cut? Probably a good thing she hadn’t bled to death after all. “When I have kids,” she promised herself, “I’m not gonna say ‘you always’ or ‘you never,’ like Mom does. Nobody does things ‘always’ or ‘never.’ ”

In the morning she found a note on the counter.

“Sorry for the way I blew up at you. How about going out for dinner tonight; maybe we can do some real talking. I should be home early. Love, Mom.”

DJ read the note a second and third time.
Her
mother apologizing? On one hand she felt she could touch the stars, on the other, an ant belly would be higher off the floor than her feelings. She grabbed a couple of food bars and an apple, stuffing them into her backpack along with a can of soda. At least now she could stay at the Academy longer. The house could stay empty all day.

“Bridget wants to see you,” Hilary called when DJ walked into the barn.

“What for?”

“How should I know?”

“Oh, okay, thanks.” DJ threw the words over her shoulder, already halfway to the office.

Bridget Sommersby, Academy owner and former Olympic contender, sat at her oak desk behind piles of papers, magazines, file folders, and a frayed girth strap. The pained look on her face and the ledger in front of her said she was working on the books. Her feelings about the bookkeeping end of her business were well known to all who knew her.

“You wanted me?” DJ knew that if she was in trouble, bookkeeping time was not a good time to get called on the carpet. This was worse than the principal’s office.

“Hi, DJ, sit down. You saved me.” The smile on Bridget’s square-jawed face told DJ she was not in trouble. Bridget stuck the pencil she’d been using into her slicked-into-a-bun blond hair. “How are things going?”

DJ sank down into the wooden chair by the desk. “Going.”

“That bad, huh?” At DJ’s nod, Bridget pulled the pencil back out and tapped the eraser on the desk. “How much longer do you have in jail?”

DJ felt her heavy mood begin to lighten. “A week. Guess I’ll live through it.”

“Not riding is rough.” Bridget leaned back in her swivel chair. She let the pause lengthen while she studied DJ over the tops of her horn-rimmed half glasses. “How would you like Patches back?” She raised a hand to suggest DJ not leap out of her chair. DJ settled back on the edge of her seat. “Hilary has already started classes at Diablo Valley College and just does not have the time to train and work anything but her own mount right now. So, while I agree with your mother on the importance of discipline, as an employer, I need you to work Patches. I take it this would not cause you unhappiness?”

“Not in the least.” DJ could respond formally when needed. But she couldn’t disguise the bounce of pleasure that rocked the chair.

“Fine, here is the training program I have set up.” Bridget handed a sheet of instructions across the desk. “Hopefully Amy will be back soon, because I would like you to work with Patches an hour a day at least—for now. His owners want him ready for their young son to ride. Mrs. Johnson plans to take lessons once a week on him, too, after school starts.”

“Wouldn’t the boy do better on a pony at first? Maybe like Bandit? Patches is pretty big.” DJ sat on her hands so she wouldn’t bite her nails.

“True.” Bridget nodded. “That is a good suggestion. I will talk to the McDougalls. Maybe exchange some board for using Bandit as a schooling horse.” The phone at her right hand rang. “Talk to you later.”

DJ was out the door almost before Bridget answered “hello.” She got to ride again! It felt as though she hadn’t been on a horse for a hundred years or more.

She rushed through her assigned stalls, making sure each horse got its required care, but not spending her normal amount of time scratching ears and giving love pats. She left Patches till last.

“Howdy, Patches, old boy. You ready for some training?” The big dark bay snuffled her hair, then rubbed his forehead against her shoulder. “You’re just a sweetie, you know that?” DJ leaned down to retrieve two brushes from the bucket, one for each hand. “Let’s get you all shined up and ready to work.” She kept up a running monologue, her tongue moving in rhythm with her hands while she brushed, combed his tail, and picked hooves. The white splotch between his eyes gleamed white in the dim light.

“You’re going to make a real flashy show horse someday, you know that?” She finished by wiping down his face with a soft brush. She dropped the pick and brushes back in her bucket and set it outside the stall door. Once he was saddled and bridled, she led him out and trotted him over to the ring, to mount inside the gate. Just swinging her leg over the Western saddle and settling into the seat felt like coming home. Even though DJ would rather ride English, her specialty, Patches’ owners had requested Western training, at least for now. So Western it was.

She started the neck-reining review, turning him first in circles to the right and then the left, followed by figure eights. Patches let his displeasure at the slow pace be known as they moved from a walk to a jog. Instead of an easy-on-the-rider jog, he wanted to keep up a bone-jarring trot.

“Easy, fella.” DJ repeatedly pulled him down. “Until you can manage this, you can’t go any faster.” When he refused to follow the figure-eight pattern, she brought him to a stop. He wasn’t happy with that, either, and he showed it by jigging to the side.

“You know, your manners leave a lot to be desired.” The gelding tossed his head, jangling the bit, and stomped his front feet. DJ kept him in place. “I think tomorrow we’ll put you on the hot walker so you can work some of this off before our training time.” Patches snorted and sighed, as if giving up.

“Good fella.” This time he went through his paces without a scolding.

“You are very good with him, DJ.” Bridget had stopped to watch without DJ noticing. “I agree, putting a beginning rider up on him could cause some real problems.”

“Whoever green-broke him let him get away with murder.” DJ brought the horse to a stop in front of Bridget, who was leaning on the aluminum rail.

“He likes to run, that is for sure.” Bridget reached out and stroked the gelding’s nose. “But he will catch a judge’s eye in the ring.”

DJ leaned forward and stroked the now-sweaty neck. “That’s what I told him. Okay, fella, back at it. Ready for a lope? A nice, easy rocking-chair lope?”

“Good luck.” Bridget pushed away from the fence.

Half an hour later, Patches still fought the restrictions. He did
not
want to lope, he wanted to run. DJ dismounted and led him over to the barn, where she reached for a lead shank to snap onto his halter.

“Here, I’ll hold him.” James took the reins.

“Hey, James, thanks. You see what a pill he is?” DJ entered the tack room and returned with a running martingale. She undid the cinch and slipped the loop over it, settling the leather between Patches’ front legs. Then she slipped the reins through the rings and checked to make sure all the adjustments were correct.

“That should help you with him.” James stroked the horse’s shoulder and helped adjust the leather straps.

“At least he won’t be able to toss his head around.” DJ patted the gelding’s nose. “Sorry, fella, but you asked for it.”

“I’ll get the gate.” James started across the dusty parking area.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone new is living in that boy’s body.” DJ swung aboard while muttering to no one in particular.

“You got it.” Hilary led her mount into the sunlight. “You sure did work a miracle with that kid.”

“Me?” DJ stopped herself from signaling Patches to move forward. She snapped her jaw closed.

“Well, he was buggin’ you the worst, and then you worked at becoming his friend.”

“I did?” DJ looked at Hilary as if maybe she’d gotten straw on the brain or something.

“Just a shame he’s leaving.”

“I know. I wish he weren’t. Well, at least he’ll be here for the Labor Day show.” DJ thought about Hilary’s comments while she rode across the parking lot and into the arena.

“Thanks for helping me, James. You gonna work Gray Bar now?”

“Yeah. After I finish my stalls. You got time to coach me on the V-bend for the trail class? She really hates that.”

DJ swallowed a boulder of shock. James was asking for help. Wait till she told Gran! And here she’d laughed and groaned at Gran’s suggestion to pray for James.

Patches stopped flat in his journey around the ring. He didn’t like the martingale. DJ kept him at a jog, legs firm and whip in hand. Finally, after three circuits, the horse settled down and let out a sigh of defeat. Immediately, DJ nudged him into a lope. At first he tried bolting into a gallop, but the firm hand on his reins wouldn’t allow that. And he couldn’t get his head up. Sweat popped out on his neck, staining the smooth hide nearly black.

When he finally made two circuits of the arena at a gentle lope, DJ eased him back to a jog, then down to a walk. “Good boy. You might be stubborn, but you’ll make it.” She walked him around a few more times to help cool him down, then stopped to watch James work the parallel bars laid in a V formation in the center of the ring.