Nicholas Evans - The Horse Whisperer

'Pilgrim wouldn't look at me. It was weird. Like he was ashamed or something.'

'Of what happened?'

'No. I don't know. Maybe just of the way he is.'

She told Annie how, later, Tom had led him up to the barn and they'd washed him down. He'd allowed Tom to pick up his feet and clean some of the compacted filth out of them and though he wouldn't let his mane or tail be cleaned, they'd at least managed to get a brush to most of his coat. Grace suddenly stopped and gave Annie a look of concern.

'You okay?'

'I'm fine. Why?'

'I dunno. You looked sort of worried or something.'

'Just tired I guess, that's all.'

When they were almost through eating, Robert called and Grace went and sat at Annie's desk and told the same story all over again while Annie cleared the dishes.

She stood at the sink washing pans and listening to the frenzied clatter of a bug trapped among corpses he maybe recognized in one of the fluorescent lights. Lucy's call had cast a reflective shadow that even Grace's news had failed fully to dispel.

Her spirits had lifted briefly when she heard the scrunch of the Chevy's wheels outside bringing Grace back from the corrals. She and Tom hadn't spoken since the barn dance though he'd scarcely been out of her thoughts and she'd quickly checked her reflection in the glass door of the oven, thinking, hoping, that he'd come in. But he'd just waved and driven off.

Lucy's call had hauled her back - as in a different way Robert's did now - into what she knew with dulling acknowledgment to be her real life. Though what she meant by'real', Annie no longer knew. Nothing, in a sense, could be more real than the life they'd found here. So what was the difference between these two lives?

One, it seemed to Annie, was comprised of obligations and the other of possibilities. Hence, perhaps, the notion of reality. For obligations were palpable, soundly rooted in reciprocal deeds; possibilities on the other hand were chimeras, flimsy and worthless, dangerous even. And as you grew older and wiser, you realized this and closed them off. It was better that way. Of course it was.

The bug in the light was trying a new tactic, taking long rests then hurling himself at the plastic casing with doubled effort. Grace was telling Robert how, the day after tomorrow, she was going to help drive the cattle up to the summer pastures and how they'd all be sleeping rough. Yes, she said, of course she'd be riding, how else was she supposed to go?

'Dad, you don't have to worry, okay? Gonzo's fine.'

Annie finished in the kitchen and switched off the lights to give the bug a break. She walked slowly into the living room and stopped to stand behind Grace's chair, idly arranging the girl's hair on the back of her shoulders.

'She's not coming,' Grace said. 'She says she's got too much work to do. She's right here, do you want to talk to her? Okay. I love you too Daddy.'

She vacated the chair for Annie and went off upstairs to run a bath. Robert was still in Geneva. He said he would probably be flying back to New York the following Monday. He'd told Annie two nights ago what Freddie Kane had said and now, wearily, she told him about Gates firing Lucy. Robert listened in silence and then asked her what she was going to do about it. Annie sighed.

'I don't know. What do you think I should do?'

There was a pause and Annie sensed he was thinking carefully about what he was about to say.

'Well, from out there, I don't think there's a whole lot you can do.'

'You're saying we should come back?'

'No, I'm not saying that.'

'With everything going so well with Grace and Pilgrim?'

'No, Annie. I didn't say that.'

'That's what it sounded like.'

She could hear him inhale deeply and suddenly she felt guilty about twisting his words when she wasn't being honest about her own motives for staying. His voice, when he resumed, was measured.

'I'm sorry if that's how it sounded. It's wonderful about Grace and Pilgrim. It's important you all stay out there as long as you need to.'

'More important than my job, you mean?'

'Christ, Annie!'

'I'm sorry.'

They talked about other, less contentious things and by the time they said good-bye they were friends again, though he didn't tell her he loved her. Annie hung up and sat there. She hadn't meant to attack him like that. It was more that she was punishing herself for her own inability - or reluctance - to sort out the tangle of half-realized desires and denials that churned within her.

Grace had the radio on in the bathroom. An oldies station was doing what they kept calling a Major Monkees Retrospective. They'd just played 'Daydream Believer' and now it was 'Last Train to Clarksville'. Grace must have fallen asleep or have her ears underwater.

Suddenly, and with suicidal clarity, Annie knew what she was going to do. She would tell Gates that if he didn't reinstate Lucy Friedman she would resign. She would fax him the ultimatum tomorrow. If it was still okay with the Bookers, she would, after all, go on the damned cattle drive. And when she came back, she would either have a job or she wouldn't.

The herd curled up toward him around the shoulder of the ridge like a spilling black river in reverse. Here the contours of the land gave all the marshaling required, forcing the cattle upward on a curving trail which, though neither fenced nor marked, was yet their only option. Tom always liked to ride ahead here and stop high on the slope to watch them come.

The other riders were coming now, set strategically above and about the edge of the herd, Joe and Grace to the right, Frank and the twins on the left and appearing now at the rear, Diane and Annie. Beyond them, the plateau they had just crossed was a sea of wildflowers through which their passage had churned a wake of green and at whose distant shore they'd rested under a noon sun and watched the cattle drink.

From where Tom now stood his horse, you could see but the faintest shimmer of the pool and nothing at all of the valley beyond where the land fell away to the meadows and cottonwood creeks of the Double Divide. It was as if the plateau shelved seamless and straight to the vast plains and the eastern rim of the sky.

The calves looked dapper and strong, with a fine luster to their coats. Tom smiled to himself when he thought of the sorry beasts they'd driven that spring some thirty years ago when his father first brought them to live out here. Some had been so scrawny you could almost hear the rattle of their ribs.

Daniel Booker had ranched some serious winters back at Clark's Fork but nothing as harsh as he found on the Front. In that first winter he lost near as many calves as he saved and the cold and the worry etched marks yet deeper in a face already changed forever by the forced sale of his home. But on the ridge where Tom was now, his father had smiled at what he saw about him and known for the first time that his family could survive in this place and even might prosper.

Tom had told Annie about this while they rode across the plateau. During the morning and even when they stopped to eat, there'd been too much going on for them to speak. But now both cattle and riders had the hang of things and there was time. He'd ridden up alongside her and she'd asked him the names of the flowers. He'd shown her blue flax and cinquefoil and balsamroot and the ones they called rooster heads and Annie had listened in that serious way of hers, storing it all away as if one day she might be tested.

It had been one of the warmest springs Tom could remember. The grass was lush and made a wet slicking sound against the legs of their horses. Tom had pointed out the ridge ahead and told her how he'd ridden with his father to its crest that long ago day to see if they were on the right line for the high pastures.