Nicholas Evans - The Horse Whisperer

When they broke the skyline of the ridge up which Tom had wanted her to ride with him, Joe called and pointed and they all stopped to look. Far away to the south, across the plateau, there were horses. Tom told her they were the mustangs set free by the hippie woman, the one Frank called Granola Gay. It was almost the only thing he said to her all day.

It was evening and starting to rain when they reached the Double Divide. They were all too tired to talk as they unsaddled the horses.

Annie and Grace said their good-nights to the Bookers outside the barn and got into the Lariat. Tom said he'd go and check that Pilgrim was okay. His good-night to Annie seemed no more special than the one he gave to Grace.

On the way up to the creek house Grace said the sleeve of her prosthetic leg felt tight on her stump and they agreed to have Terri Carlson take a look tomorrow. While Grace went up for the first bath, Annie checked her messages.

The answering machine was full, the fax machine had spewed a whole new roll of paper over the floor and her E mail was humming. Mostly the messages expressed varying degrees of shock, outrage and commiseration. There were two others and these were the only ones Annie bothered to read in full, one with relief and the other with a mix of emotion she had yet to name.

The first, from Crawford Gates, said that with the greatest possible regret he must accept her resignation. The second was from Robert. He was flying out to Montana to spend the coming weekend with them. He said he loved them both very much.

Tom Booker watched the lariat disappear over the ridge and wondered, as he had so many times before, about the man Annie and Grace were going to collect. What he knew of him he knew mainly from Grace. As if by some unspoken consent, Annie had talked of her husband only rarely and even then impersonally, more of his job than of his character.

Despite the many good things Grace had told him (or perhaps because of them) and despite his own best efforts to the contrary, Tom could not fully dislodge a predisposed dislike that was not, he knew, in his nature. He'd tried to rationalize it, in the hope of finding some more acceptable reason. The guy, after all, was a lawyer. How many of them had he ever met and liked? But of course, it wasn't that. There was sufficient cause in the simple fact that this particular lawyer was Annie Graves's husband. And in a few short hours he would be here, openly possessing her again. Tom turned and went into the barn.

Pilgrim's bridle hung on the same peg in the tack room where he'd put it the day Annie first brought the horse out here. He took it down and looped it over his shoulder. The English saddle too was on the same rest. There was a thin layer of hay dust on it which Tom wiped away with his hand. He lifted the saddle off with its rug and carried them out and down the avenue of empty stalls to the back door.

Outside the morning was hot and still. Some of the yearlings in the far paddock were already seeking the shade of the cottonwoods. As Tom made his way down toward Pilgrim's corral, he looked at the mountains and knew from their clarity and a first wafting of cloud that later there would be thunder and rain.

All week he had avoided her, shunning the very moments he had always sought, when he might be alone with her. He had learned from Grace that Robert was coming. But even before then, even as they rode down from the mountains, he'd decided this was what he must do. Not an hour had gone by that he hadn't remembered the feel and smell of her, the touch of her skin on his, the way their mouths had melded. The memory was too intense, too physical, for him to have dreamed it, but he would treat it as if he had, for what else could he do? Her husband was coming and soon, in a matter of days now, she would be gone. For both of their sakes, for all of their sakes, it was best that until then he keep his distance and see her only when Grace was there too. Only thus might his resolve endure.

It had been sorely tested the very first evening. When he dropped Grace back at the house, Annie was waiting out on the porch. He waved and would have pulled away but she came toward the car to speak to him while Grace went off inside.

'Diane tells me they're all going to L.A. next week.'

'Yes. It's all a big secret.'

'And you're off to Wyoming.'

'That's right. I promised a while back I'd go visit down there. Friend of mine's got a couple of colts he wants starting.'

She nodded and for a moment the only sound was the impatient rumble of the Chevy's engine. They smiled at each other and he felt she was equally unsure of the territory they had stepped into. Tom tried hard to let nothing show in his eyes that might make things difficult for her. In all likelihood she regretted what had happened between them. Maybe one day he would too. The screen door banged and Annie turned.

'Mom? Okay if I call Dad?'

'Sure.'

Grace went in again. When Annie turned back to him, he saw in her eyes that there was something she wanted to say. If it was regret, he didn't want to hear it so he spoke to stem it.

'I hear he's coming out this weekend?'

'Yes.'

'Grace is like a cat with ten tails, been going on about it all afternoon.'

Annie nodded. 'She misses him.'

'I'll bet. We'll have to see if we can lick old Pilgrim into shape by then. Get Grace up there riding him.'

'Are you serious?'

'Don't see why not. We've got some hard work this week but if things work out, I'll give it a go and if he's okay with me, Grace can do it for her daddy.'

'Then we can take him home.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Tom—'

'Of course, you're welcome to stay as long as you like. Just because we're all away, doesn't mean you have to leave.'

She smiled bravely. "Thank you.'

'I mean, packing up all your computer and fax and all's going to take a week or two.' She laughed and he had to look away from her for fear of betraying the ache in his chest at the thought of her leaving. He shoved the car into gear and smiled and bade her good-night.

Since then Tom had done better in avoiding being alone with her. He'd thrown himself into the work with Pilgrim with an energy he hadn't been able to summon since his earliest clinics.

In the mornings he worked him on Rimrock, moving him round and round the corral until he could go from a walk to a lope and back again as smoothly as Tom was sure he once had and until his hind feet fit faultlessly the prints of his fore. In the afternoons Tom went on foot and worked him on a halter. He worked him in circles, stepping in close and turning him, making him roll his hindquarters across.

Sometimes Pilgrim would try and fight it and back away and when he did this Tom would run with him, keeping in the same position until the horse knew there was no point running because the man would always be there and that maybe after all it was okay to do what was being asked of him. His feet would come still and the two of them would stand there awhile, drenched in their own and each other's sweat, leaning on each other and panting, like a pair of punched-out boxers waiting for the bell.

At first Pilgrim had found his new urgency puzzling, for even Tom had no way of telling him there was a deadline now. Not that Tom could have explained why he should be so determined to make the horse right when in so doing he would deprive himself forever of what he most wanted. But whatever he made of it, Pilgrim seemed to draw on this strange and relentless new vigor and soon he was as much a party to the endeavor as Tom.

And today, at last, Tom would ride him.

Pilgrim watched him shut the gate and walk to the middle of the corral, carrying the saddle with the bridle looped over his shoulder.