Rider
Sinbad stared, openmouthed, at the sight before him. Yeah, he’d seen commercials for rodeo bronc riders on TV, but somehow the idiot box hadn’t conveyed the full impact of the stomping, writhing animal and the spine-shattering maneuvers it was pulling. The horse spun tightly, hunching up its back and then slinking along low, knees bent, then suddenly sprung up into the air, twisting and writhing midair before coming to land jarringly on the ground again, sending up a cloud of thick dust. He watched in shock as the animal’s anger continued.
The most amazing thing of all, Sinbad thought, was the rider on the mustang’s back, and how he kept hanging on even though the horse was doing its damned best to throw him.
"He looks like a rubber band!" Sinbad commented, jaw nearly slack, to his guide.
The old cowboy gave a rough grin, blond stubble framing his leathery face.
"’s how it used ta be," he said, nodding to the corral. The fenceposts were heavy, round poles, the fence itself sturdy elmwood, almost half a foot thick. Sinbad wondered briefly why such caution was necessary, but he didn’t have to wonder long as the horse moved up to the fence, trying to scrape his rider off upon it. The rider cursed roughly and managed to turn away just before his leg was crushed between the heavy logs and the horse’s side.
"I understood that riding broncs was a lost art except for the trick riders at the rodeo," he commented, more of a question really, as he continued to watch the bucking horse. He shook his dark hair out of his face and continued to watch with respectful blue eyes.
"Eh, almos’ true," the cowboy replied. "’Cep fer a few places in the Midwes’, an’ out Australia-ways. An’ us, o’ course. We got too many wild herds runnin’ loose, scarin’ livestock n’ sech. Gov’ment’ll turn ‘em inta dog food if’n we don’t take ‘em. Dog food!" He spat, a thin stream of yellowy tobacco juice hitting the gravel. "S’ we catch ‘em ‘n we train ‘em. Waste of a good piece of workin’ horseflesh t’ let ‘em rot in a cannery."
The old man gestured around, at the cattle and the fields beyond the old farmhouse. "We do things ‘ere jest like your great-granddaddy did in his day. No machines t’ round up ‘n scare the beasts, no machines t’ tend the fields. That’s why we’ve survived s’long. We do things right."
Sinbad gave a noncommittal nod, looking around. He’d just inherited the ranch from his father, the successful businessman leaving his corporate junctures in the city to the elder son and the family ranch to the younger. Sinbad didn’t mind. This place practically ran itself, and he didn’t like being in the city anyway. Most of the time he stayed out on the ocean or on the beach. He had a small boat, a seventeen-foot Lightning that he’d made modifications to, and changed into his own perfect vessel. He smiled a little. He’d be glad to get away from the ranch so he could get back to the ocean, but business came first, and he was here to make sure the ranch was still making money and supporting itself. Otherwise he might be forced to sell it.
The bronc was lathered in sweat when it finally dropped to all fours, trembling with fatigue. The rider, ever so slowly, released the saddlehorn and leaned over to slap its neck affectionately before sliding down.
"Rider!" the man called. The rider turned and raised a hand in greeting, then led the exhausted animal over to the two men.
"Excellent, as always," the old cowboy praised, and the rider nodded thanks at the compliment. He was dressed in a long trenchcoat-like jacket, presumably to keep the dust at bay, and he wore a cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. "Here’s sommun I’d like you t’ meet, Sinbad. This is our premiere bronc buster, as the public likes t’ call ‘em."
The rider reached up with hands red from grasping the saddle and reins and loosened the tie holding the hat on his head. And, as he pulled it away from his face, Sinbad got the biggest shock of his life. ‘He’ was a she.
She tossed a thick mane of red curls, damp with the sweat of her ride, away from her face and studied him. Her eyes were deep and dark, and they seemed to cut straight through him. She wore a slightly mocking air as she scrutinized him, and Sinbad took an involuntary little step away from the fence separating them. It wasn’t her he was trying to get away from, but the intensely curious look she was giving him, as if her mind was dissecting his thoughts and deciding they weren’t of interest.
Sinbad, for his part, studied her with the same scrutiny. She was beautiful, he noticed offhandedly, with aristocratic features and skin he’d expect to see on some rich corporate woman, but not on someone who worked outside in the sun and wind all day. Her skin glowed with the exercise, sweat beading up on her upper lip and forehead. She swiped at a drop that trickled down her face, leaving a dusty smudge behind.
"Name’s Rider," she said finally, still eyeing him almost mistrustfully.
"Rider?" Sinbad raised his eyebrow skeptically. "What kind of a name is that?"
She studied him coolly. "Mine."
"’S true," the old cowboy interjected. "Rider’s been here fer years—ever since she ‘uz a little ’un. Daresay she knows th’ place better’n I do nowadays." He spat again, and the yellowy saliva landed near the green-broke horse’s hooves. It shied away, the whites of its eyes rolling as it danced. The woman gave one jerk to the reins and the horse calmed, more fearful of disobeying than of the spit.
"Rider, this is Sinbad, th’ new owner of the ranch." The cowboy leaned closer to catch her eye with his. "You’ll be showin’ ‘im around t’morrow, an’ teachin’ ‘im to ride."
Both young people protested this statement at the same time.
"I have to get the two Appys ready for the next roundup," Rider began, at the same time Sinbad said,
"I came here to do business—"
The foreman ignored them both. "Rider, I’m putting Paul in charge of the ‘Loosas so you’ll have time. Sinbad, your father told me, in his last visit here, that he wanted you t’ have first-hand understanding of this place before you began managin’ it. That means getting’ up a-horseback an’ ridin’ the trails wi’ us." He gave the young man a piercing look. No complainin’, young sir. Fer th’ next week er so, yer under my orders…and hers." He cast a glance at the woman, who was glaring at him with a look that could freeze fire. Mirth glimmered behind the surface of his old eyes. It would be good for her to see a glimpse of the outside world by talking with their new boss, and it would also be good for her patience to have to work with someone new to horses and ranch life. Yes, this was best.
"I’ll git yer suitcase up t’ yer room," he said by means of excusing himself and stepped away with a spring in his step and a smile on his weathered face.
Sinbad eyed the woman with trepidation and misgiving, wishing for all the world that he could just get back to his boat and the sunny Pacific waters. Nothing was ever wrong just offshore of California—he could pretend the rest of the world was miles away, including all his duties and everything that went with them. There was nothing he needed to be off the coast of California except for the captain of his little boat and the master of his life. He sighed. If life were only that easy, he thought despairingly as he watched the stranger.
Rider shot a venomous glare at him before turning and tugging at the horse’s reins. "Don’t get too close to him," she warned, and Sinbad wasn’t completely sure if she was talking to him or to the horse. He followed nonetheless—what else was he supposed to do?—but stayed a respectful distance behind the animal’s hooves.
The barn was large and clean, with golden-tinted dust rising in a shaft of afternoon sunlight. Sinbad breathed the air in. It smelled like…like…he didn’t know quite what. He took another breath. He could smell leather, but that wasn’t all.
"It’s the hay and the horses you smell," his guide told him curtly as she snapped hooks connected to chains on either side of the horse’s bridle. These chains were loose, but they connected with very stout pins hammered into the walls of the barn. The young horse shook his head, and the chains jingled. He snorted unhappily at his position, but didn’t do anything else.
After a moment, when she was sure the horse wasn’t going to try anything, Rider turned around and pulled a stiff brush out of a plastic bucket on the ground. She dusted it off on her pant leg, dirt and horsehair flying up into the air and making Sinbad sneeze.
"Remember this?" she asked the horse, holding it up so the animal could see it. "It’s not a snake, it’s not a monster, it’s not a demon. It’s a brush. Now hold still."
The horse snorted its opinion of that command, its skin flinching as the brush encountered it. Rider brushed the horse with smooth, long strokes, always keeping her free hand on the animal’s coat. Seemingly bored with this whole procedure, the horse shook its head and turned, taking a link of the heavy chain into its mouth and proceeding to chew on it.
"Stop it!" Rider said sharply, poking the horse in the belly. He snorted and turned his head, glaring at her. His ears laid back warningly. "Oh, no you don’t," she said, unperturbed by the show of ferocity. "You try to bite me and—" She gave a short exclamation as the horse suited threat to action and snapped at her. She slapped back, giving his soft muzzle a smack that Sinbad could hear. The horse gave a shriek of its own, a sound of surprise more than anything, and whipped its head around to keep its face away from Rider.
"I warned you," she said pleasantly. The animal let out a breathy whicker as if complaining, but stood still for the rest of the grooming.
"You hit him!" Sinbad blurted out before he realized what he was doing.
Brown eyes locked with him, surprised. "And why not? Would you rather I let him bite me?" She shook her head. "Horses have the mental capacity of a two year old, Sinbad. They may not be the smartest little darlings, but they know enough to put two and two together. If he tries to bite me and I smack him, he learns not to bite." She rubbed the horse’s shoulder affectionately. "He doesn’t associate that I hit him, just that he got a nasty surprise when he tried to bite."
The horse whuffled his agreement of this situation and pawed at the dirt floor with one hoof.
"All right, all right!" Rider laughed and unhooked him, leading him down the row of stalls and into a clean box stall with fresh hay in the manger. "Now be good," she ordered, as if he understood her. She turned around after closing and latching the door, and looked speculatively at Sinbad. "So I’m supposed to teach you to ride." She shook her head, as if up against an impossible task, and gave a sigh.
Sinbad glared at her. "You don’t have to say it like that," he said, feeling more than a little insulted. "It’s not like I haven’t been on a horse before."
"Yeah, you probably went on those pony rides at the mall as a kid, right?" She smirked. "These are big boy horses we have here, sir. They don’t walk docilely around in a circle and stop when you tell them to." She raised an eyebrow, studying him, then snorted as if in disgust and headed off into the deeper recesses of the barn.
*****
The sea glittered bright and blue, like an apparition of heaven… Sinbad smiled and lifted his head to the breeze, feeling the soft sea air caress his face and run fingers through his hair. There were some things only the sea could give him, things like safety and belonging. Those things didn’t come to him inland, or even on the marina, where his father had the offices. The safety and belonging he found on the ocean was that of two equals coming together, for he found his equal, his other half, in the rolling waves and the sharp sea winds. No human could give him such equality, nor could any human make him feel at home on land. The sea was where he belonged.
Sighing, Sinbad turned his face toward the glittering expanse of blue water, almost too bright to look at, certainly too bright to be medically safe. He didn’t care. He breathed in the salt tang deeply, loving even the fishy scent of brine that the sea had this close to shore. He felt the waves lift him as he stood on the small Lightning, her sails at full mast. Here was peace. Here was home.
But something tore him away from the comforting vision, something quite loud and insistent. He grumbled and buried his head in the sail, just before the sail turned into an unfamiliar pillow and the boat to an unfamiliar bed. The noise was some kind of bell, and a rough, vaguely female voice calling everyone for breakfast.
Sinbad swore. He sighed and looked around the room that had been given to him for the remainder of his stay on the ranch. It was small, painted white, and utterly featureless. There was a long, low writing desk under the window, which was still open. A tall oaken chest of drawers was opposite the bed, and a low shelf sat beside it for placing shoes. Sinbad sighed and got out of bed. He was still wearing the same clothes he had put on the day before. Well, almost. He was wearing his button-down white shirt, which was now covered in wrinkles and would have to be both dry-cleaned and ironed, but below that he wore only black boxers. He sighed again, a long-suffering sound, and pushed a hand through his hair.
The bell clanged again, a tinny sound, rough and metallic. Sinbad hurriedly threw on a pair of old jeans, pants that had followed him around the world during various vacations on the ocean, but now were going to see him through some of, he was quite sure, his worst times ever. He pulled on a black t-shirt and jogging shoes before stumbling down the stairs to breakfast.
At the table he found his guide from the day before, the first one, the old man. What was his name again, Sinbad thought hurriedly. Daniel, that was it. His wife was there too; she was the cook, and the one who had called for breakfast. She was going gray, but there was still an air of elegance and quiet grace about her. Sinbad thought that, in different circumstances, he could like her very much.
The dining room was at the back of the large, sprawling ranch house, a swinging door dividing it from the kitchen. The room had long, bright windows, letting in swaths of early morning sunshine. The long table was made of rough-hewn slabs of wood, sanded smooth but unpolished, and had long benches on either side. Sinbad was sure it was all quite picturesque and charming in its own way, with the framed pictures of horses and sunsets and painted canyons on the clean white walls, but all he felt was disgusted. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong here. Doubar should have inherited it all; I don’t want it.
The back door slammed open, then, allowing two more people to enter. One was short and rather frazzled-looking, with curly hair that was beginning to thin. The other was tall and dark, though he didn’t appear to be any older than the first man. Sinbad narrowed his eyes as he sat down at a bench and put his head in his hands. He didn’t want to be introduced to any more of the workers. He didn’t want to get to know these people. He didn’t want to be here at all.
"Mornin, son," the older man said, leaning back in his chair as his wife placed a steaming tray of fried bread on the table. "How was your sleep?"
"Fine," Sinbad mumbled, his hackles rising at the word ‘son.’ He didn’t want to be known as anyone’s son. Doubar was his father’s son. Doubar was the protégé, Doubar was the one his father cared about and left the successful business to and trained in the art of being professional. His younger son was simply a family joke, some crazy sport that suddenly inherited some strange sailor genes.
The two men sat down at the table, directly across from Sinbad. The shorter man stuck his hand out. "Name’s Foster," he said. "I’m the resident vet."
Sinbad took the proffered hand, but frowned. "Resident vet? I didn’t realize ranches had their own vet."
The curly-headed man grinned. "They don’t—at least, not usually. But I’m also something of an inventor, too, and I got tired of having to leave home every time one of my clients had an emergency." He shook Sinbad’s hand heartily and then dropped it. "Dimothy here offered me a job working for him full-time, since there are so many cattle and horses and what-have-you here, and I accepted. Gives me more time to devote to both inventing and veterinary work."
The older man—Dimothy—reached for the coffee pot and poured the strong beverage into a large mug.
"Are we waiting for Rider?" the dark unnamed man asked. Dimothy shook his head.
"Naw, she’s up in the outer corral with the colt that went lame last month. Wants t’ make sure he’s all fixed up." He coughed and tore open a package of non-dairy creamer. "She’ll be in later to grab somethin’. Y’know she don’t like food in the mornin’ anyways."
The other man nodded and reached for a covered plate of sausage as Dimothy’s wife, Catherine, sat down next to her husband. "Name’s Raul," he said, aiming the comment at Sinbad without really looking at him. "Not out here all th’ time. Just the farrier, y’know. Couple of the herd needed trimmings this mornin’. Figured I’d get it done with b’fore the sun got too harsh out there."
Sinbad lifted the coffee pot and poured a mug for himself. Briefly he considered drinking it black, hoping it might at least clear his head a little—eight o’clock was much too early to be fully functional—but the strength of the coffee’s scent told him it was brewed much to strongly for that. He sighed and dumped three spoonfuls of sugar into the steaming mug.
"So, how long are you here for?" Foster asked, cutting into the liquid center of a fried egg. Sinbad thought about being sick at the sight of that runny yolk sliding across the plate and soaking into the thick slice of fried bread on Foster’s plate. Obviously these people did not eat granola for breakfast. He thought the amount of grease on that one plate alone was enough to give any normal person a serious heart attack. Doubar would love it here.
"Not sure yet," Sinbad said, stating the truth but feeling guilty about it nonetheless. He didn’t want to be here. Soon enough they would all know it. He felt guilty about not trying to like them, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to be here, away from everything he knew, everything he loved. It was too strange.
Suddenly the door banged again, and this time the one person (besides his fifth grade teacher) Sinbad didn’t want to see stepped inside. She wore the same Australian riding jacket, the kind that looked like a very heavy trenchcoat, but her jeans were a different shade of blue from the other day. She pulled the hat off her head and let it hang down her back on the drawstring, reaching over Fenton’s head to grab an apple from the bowl on the table. Sinbad looked at the finely-sculptured hand grasping the red fruit, wondering how someone who worked outside constantly in this harsh weather could possibly have skin like that. It wasn’t possible.
Brown eyes flicked up disinterestedly and eyed him. "So, is boss-boy ready for his riding lessons?" she asked sweetly. She glanced over at the old man. "What do you think, Dim? Should we put him on the buckskin?"
Dimothy rolled his eyes tolerantly and put a whole slice of fried bread in his mouth at once. "Whatever y’ think be best," he mumbled around the gigantic mouthful, bringing his coffee mug to his lips. "I’m puttin’ him in your very capable hands."
Raul chuckled at that, but didn’t actually say anything, which Sinbad considered was probably a wise idea. He picked idly at an orange, wishing his time here would just end so he could go home. To the sea, not the penthouse apartment that had been left to him. All he wanted was his boat, and a star to sail her by.
"Molly will take good care of you," Rider said, peeling the sticker off the apple and rubbing the fruit against her pant leg. Sinbad wondered, briefly, if the wax they put on fruit would be more sanitary to ingest than the dirt that had to be on her clothes, but he didn’t say anything. Let her give herself some nasty disease, if she chose. It wasn’t any of his business.
"She’s been carrying beginners since the day she was broken in. There never was a sweeter horse, especially now that she’s getting on in years." She flashed a smile that was more mocking than reassuring, and eyed his clothes. "I see you at least know enough not to wear Armani to the barn," she said, which Sinbad almost took for a compliment. "We’ll find you some riding shoes later."
Abruptly she turned, her bright curls spilling out from underneath the cowboy hat as she placed it back on her head. "I’ll see you out in the front corral in fifteen minutes," she called without turning back to him. Sinbad grimaced and picked up his coffee mug as she slammed out the door. He was not looking forward to this morning’s work.
*****
The sun was already baking as Sinbad stepped outside the door of the ranch house. He turned to his left and trudged across the gravel drive toward the large, sprawling stable. There was more than one stable, actually, but the front corral was impossible to miss. It wasn’t the one Rider had been breaking the colt in the day before, but a larger enclosure with a less-sturdy fence and several tie-rails inside it.
He hadn’t been waiting long before Rider stepped out of the barn, leading a buckskin mare. The horse walked slowly and calmly, plodding behind the woman like a placid old dog. Though his riding experience was severely limited, Sinbad still felt a wave of hurt pride that this was the mount he was to learn on. Not that he was expecting some great charger, but still…
Rider smirked as she watched him survey the horse. "Like I said," she said sweetly, "old Molly here will be a good match for you."
The horse snorted its opinion of that, but stood meekly as Rider tied it to a rail and beckoned Sinbad into the barn. She led the way through a dusty corridor, smelling strongly of clean hay, into the tack room. It was raised a little bit off the stony floor of the barn, and the floor was of clean-swept wooden planks that echoed hollowly as Rider’s boot heels clomped down. Sinbad’s sneakers didn’t make so much noise.
Rider motioned to one of the saddles hanging on a rack. It was plain, for a Western saddle, with no tooling or metal decorations.
"Take that outside," she said, hefting a saddle blanket and slinging a bridle over her arm. "Careful; don’t drop it."
Sinbad, not really thinking about what he was doing, tried to lift the saddle. "Damn!" he said, trying to figure out how to hold it. "How much does this thing weigh?"
Rider smirked again. Sinbad decided he could get really tired of that irritating smile, really fast. "About fifty pounds. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," he muttered as he followed her outside. It wasn’t the weight of the saddle, really, that was the problem; it was the unwieldy size and shape of it. Sinbad heaved a belabored sigh. This was going to be a long day.
Posted on Sep 2, 2000, 11:45 PM