Horse Whispers (10 page)

“Come on, girl,” Carole murmured. She wanted to see if the mare would follow her. Sure enough, when she walked, the mare walked behind her. When she stopped, the mare stopped. It was almost like playing with a dog! Carole spent the better part of an hour playing tag. It made her heart fill with joy to see the mare relaxed and playful.

“Okay, you stand still now. Pretend you’re on the cross-ties,” Carole said. She gave the mare’s neck and back a massage, using techniques she had read about in her favorite magazine,
Horse and Horseman
. The massaging really seemed to work. By the time she was through, the mare was so loose she looked as if she might fall asleep. One hind hoof was cocked and her head was low, her lower lip hanging. “If only we could stay here,” Carole said aloud. In the woods she could sense her connection with the mare more powerfully than at the barn. She couldn’t explain it, but she understood the mare and felt the mare trusted her. It was quiet and peaceful away from the ranch.

But all too soon it was time to go back. If they stayed away too long, their absence would be noticed. Trying to swallow the lump in her throat, Carole found a log and swung herself aboard. She rode back at a snail’s pace, letting the mare meander back up the trail.

When she came into view of the ranch, Carole tried
giving the mare a few cues to see how she would respond. She asked her to halt, jog, halt, walk, and turn. Every time, the mare obeyed. But it was strange. Carole knew she was obeying because she wanted to, not because she had to. She was
letting
Carole direct her. Carole leaned down to pat the mare’s neck. When she sat back up, her heart skipped a beat. There, standing in front of the barn, were Frank and his crew of wranglers. They were all staring at Carole.

“Amazing!” somebody called.

Somebody else started clapping.

Carole was dismayed that everyone had seen. She had only meant to help the mare. Now she was yet again the center of attention. Nervously she continued forward. She coaxed the mare toward the group of people. What could she say to Frank now? Would he be angry that she had ridden off without telling him? Without saddling up first? Without trying the mare in an enclosed area?

“I—I’m sorry. I know it was stupid, but—”

The expression on Frank’s face was one of respect, not disapproval. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. How on earth did you get her to settle down enough to get on?”

“Yeah, and how’d you get her to go in the direction you wanted?” Mick asked. “And to stop like that?”

Carole was embarrassed by the attention. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. She searched the crowd of stable hands until she saw John Brightstar. He was looking at her
steadily, wisely. He understood! She wasn’t sure she understood, herself, whatever it was that made the mare trust her. But if John understood, it seemed okay.

The wranglers pressed Carole for an explanation, so she gave a response that was becoming almost automatic. “I don’t know,” she said.

T
HERE WAS A PAUSE
. Then so much happened all at once that Carole couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Frank turned to go inside and tend to business. Everybody else wanted to see the black mare that had run away the day before, that Carole had ridden bareback without a bridle. One of the stable hands came up with a lead line and halter. Another helped Carole to the ground. Nobody seemed to notice that the mare was beginning to toss her head nervously. It was as if they thought that because she trusted Carole, she now trusted all humans. Carole knew she had better explain—and fast.

“We’ll groom her for you,” Mick volunteered.

“Yeah, she’ll look great when she’s all shined up,” said someone else.

Only John objected. “Maybe we should let Carole—”

But before he could finish, and before Carole could open her mouth to protest, the mare had been led off to be cross-tied. Carole ran behind, struggling to cut through the group. It was too late! The mare panicked. The minute the cross-ties were snapped to her halter, she started backing up. She backed up so hard that the snaps quick-released from the wall. Lines flapping, the mare bolted wildly down the aisle.

“Somebody get her!”

Carole stood there paralyzed.
Run
, she prayed silently.
Run as fast as you can
.

This time the wranglers were on their toes. One put up his hands to stop her. She ducked left—right toward Mick. Mick put up his hand lightning fast. He caught her.

Carole flinched when she heard the command: “Better put her in a stall till she quiets down.”

Helplessly Carole watched as the mare was led away down the aisle, dancing nervously at the end of the lead shank. As she turned the corner of the aisle, she let out a loud, plaintive whinny. Carole blocked her ears with her hands. She couldn’t bear the sound. If only there were something, anything, she could do!

P
HYLLIS WAS LAUGHING
so hard, tears were running down her cheeks. “Mom, what
is
it?” Kate demanded testily.

Stevie and Lisa had an inkling of what was so funny. Phyllis had just examined the groceries they’d bought. Then she had asked them to explain their purchases. Stevie and Lisa were attempting this when Kate walked in. “Allspice! You thought I meant ‘all spices.’ That’s great! It’s a classic!”

“Oh,” Kate said, a grin breaking over her features. “Oh, that is funny.”

Stevie and Lisa waited. And they waited. Eventually the Devines would have to stop laughing and explain.

Finally Phyllis managed to breathe in and out. “There’s a spice
called
allspice,” she said. “It’s like cinnamon or nutmeg, only its name is allspice.”

“Oh,” said Stevie.

“I see,” said Lisa.

“Now, where’s that pastry flour?” Kate’s mother inquired.

Lisa gulped “Um, we got some pastry and some flour. What’s pastry flour?”

Phyllis smothered her laughter. “I think we’d better start at the beginning,” she said.

A half hour later the girls had sorted through the list. Their faces were bright crimson. Crushed tomatoes were canned tomatoes crushed for making sauces. Condensed milk was a sweetened, canned milk product used for baking. And
chicken
meant a whole chicken, plain and simple.

“I have to admit, that did cross my mind,” Stevie said about the last mistake.

“Are you going to have the right ingredients for dinner?” Lisa asked. Even though Phyllis didn’t seem to care, she felt like a total idiot.

“Yes,” Phyllis said. “Because I’ve decided that dinner is going to be leftovers. I don’t feel the greatest, and I don’t feel like making a big meal, anyway.”

Stevie, Lisa, and Kate were concerned, but Phyllis brushed them off. “No, no, please—it’s only a cold. But I thought you guys could heat up the leftovers and I could go to bed early.”

Lisa looked at Stevie. Stevie looked at Lisa. This time they both had a mischievous glint in their eyes. Stevie raised her eyebrows. Lisa nodded imperceptibly. “
We’ll
make dinner!” they practically shouted.

“It’s the least we can do,” Stevie said.

“And we’ll have fun doing it,” Lisa added.

To their surprise, Phyllis looked doubtful. “Are you sure you’re up to it? I mean, baking a few pies is one thing, but a full dinner for the four guests, plus six of us—you’ll have to plan on dinner for ten, more if you invite Walter and John.”

“No problem,” Stevie assured her. After the success of the pies, she felt more confident than ever. “I’ve cooked for my three brothers before, and the way they eat, it’s pretty much the same as cooking for ten. I’m sure we can handle it.”

Lisa felt the same way. She always liked to challenge herself. This could be her next project. They could see Phyllis was wavering.

“Please!” Lisa begged. “This will be just the thing I need to ace home ec. If I can do this, I can do anything.”

“I’ll help them, Mom!” Kate added.

Phyllis blew her nose. She coughed slightly. She turned to Stevie and Lisa. They couldn’t tell what she was thinking. They tried to look as eager as possible.

“We-ell, maybe if you made spaghetti with jar sauce and a big salad—”

“Spaghetti it is!” Stevie said. She feigned a bad Italian accent. “Lovely spaghetti with-a sauce-a from-a the jar-o.
Bon appétit!
”

“Uh, Stevie?” Lisa said.

“Yeah?”

“
Bon appétit
is French.”

“Oh. Okay.
Bueno appetito
?”

Lisa smiled. “I don’t think so.”

“But you will let us make dinner, won’t you?” Stevie pleaded.

Phyllis laughed. “All right. I can’t say no to this much enthusiasm. But keep it simple!”

W
HEN
C
AROLE RETURNED
from the barn, two of her friends were hard at work. Kate had volunteered to make the salad. She was busy tearing lettuce into a wooden salad bowl. Lisa had filled a large pot with water and was hunting
for smaller pots for the sauce. Stevie was looking through a stack of cookbooks. She had nothing to do right then. Her job was cooking the spaghetti, and she had already read the directions on the back of the spaghetti box—three times.

Feeling self-conscious, Carole cleared her throat. “Can I help?” she asked. No matter how upset she was about the black mare, she was not going to show it. She was going to pretend that everything was normal. She’d figure something out soon enough, and she didn’t need a lot of suspicious questions from Lisa and Stevie in the meantime.

“Yeah,” Lisa said, looking up in surprise. “That would be great.” She told Carole the menu so far, explaining that Phyllis had gone to bed early. She consciously avoided asking about the mare. John’s words had stung at first, but now that they had sunk in, she thought he might be right. If Carole wanted their help, she could ask for it. “We’re wondering what else we should have with dinner.”

Carole thought for a minute, glad for the distraction. “Hmmm … How about garlic bread? Dad and I always make that. It’s really simple.”

“Excellent!” Stevie exclaimed. “The more carbohydrates, the better!”

Lisa laughed. A litte enviously, she watched Carole get bread from the pantry, butter from the fridge, and garlic from the garlic braid hanging above the stove. There was something about Carole’s attitude that showed confidence in the kitchen. Feeling lame, Lisa banged a jar of tomato
sauce on the edge of the counter to loosen the lid. She opened the jar and dumped the contents into a pot. Then she stood there stirring it. She hated to admit it, but the competitive side in her was coming out. She wanted to get credit for the dinner, too! Opening a couple of jars of sauce just didn’t cut it.

Stevie dumped the spaghetti into the boiling water and re-covered the pot. Then she went back to her perch on the counter. She flipped a page in the cookbook she was studying:
Desserts from Paris, with Love!

“
Tarte Tatin
,” she read. “Hey, this looks good! It’s kind of like a fancy apple pie that’s upside down. Or something. Ooh, wait:
crème brûlée
. I had this once in a restaurant with my parents. It’s so good. It’s pudding with burned stuff on top.”

“Sounds disgusting,” said Kate. “And anyway, that cookbook is ancient. Why don’t you use something more up to date?”

Stevie shot her an annoyed look.

“Well, I’m all done,” Kate announced. She wiped her hands briskly on her jeans and put the salad in the refrigerator.

“Me too,” said Carole. She set the two long halves of French bread on a cookie tray. “These have butter and garlic on them. They just have to bake.”

Lisa made a face behind her back. Why was everyone Miss Perfect Cook all of a sudden?

“Let’s you and I go set the table,” Kate suggested. “Boy, this sure is fun, cooking together, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Lisa, barely able to hide her sarcasm. When they were gone, she ran over to Stevie. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“They’re going to get all the credit!” Stevie answered. Her competitive blood was up, too.

“Exactly!” said Lisa.

Stevie’s eyes narrowed. “But not if we knock their socks off with a fabulous French dessert! Let’s make
crème brûlée
and
tarte Tatin
!”

It was too good a suggestion to ignore. The two girls whizzed into action. Stevie got out eggs, milk, butter, and flour. Lisa found apples and began to peel them. They worked at a feverish pace, running back and forth to consult the recipes.

“Ow!” Lisa screamed. “I cut my thumb!”

“Are you okay?” Stevie asked, ambulances and hospitals flashing through her mind.

“Forget
me
!” Lisa cried. “There’s blood on the apples!”

Stevie ran over to look. “Gross!”

“It’s not my fault!” Lisa snapped.

“I know, I know! But you’re going to have to throw them out.”

Lisa could have screamed. She looked into the bloodied bowl of apples. All that work for nothing! It was enough to—

There was a loud clattering sound. Both girls turned and looked at the stove. “The spaghetti!” Stevie shrieked. The pot was boiling over. Water was spilling onto the stove at an alarming rate.