The rutted grass made walking a little tricky but Grace concentrated on swinging her leg through and although she knew Joe walked more slowly than he normally would, it didn't worry her. She felt as easy with him as she did with Tom. They reached the gate to Pilgrim's corral and leaned there to watch him.
'He was such a beautiful horse,' she said.
'He still is.'
Grace nodded. She told him about that day, almost a year ago, when they went down to Kentucky. And while she spoke, across the corral, Pilgrim seemed to be acting out some perverse parody of the events she described. He paced the rail in a mocking strut with his tail held high, but it was matted and twitched and was angled, Grace knew, by fear not pride.
Joe listened and she saw in his eyes the same contained calm that was in Tom's. It was startling sometimes how like his uncle he was, both in looks and manner. That easy smile and the way he took off his hat and pushed back his hair. Now and again Grace had caught herself wishing he was just a year or two older - not that he'd be interested in her, of course. Not in that way, not now, what with her leg. Anyway, it was fine as it was, just being friends.
She had learned a lot from watching Joe handle the younger horses, especially Bronty's foal. He never forced himself on them but instead let them come and offer themselves and then he would accept them with an ease that Grace could see made them feel both welcome and secure. He'd play with them, but if they ever got unsure he'd back off and leave them be.
'Tom says you gotta give them direction,' he'd told her one day when they were with the foal. 'But push too hard and they get real squirmy. You gotta let them kind of fill in. Tom says it's all about self-preservation.'
Pilgrim had stopped and stood watching them from as far away as he could get.
'So, you gonna ride him?' Joe said. Grace turned to him and frowned.
'What?'
'When Tom's got him straightened out.'
She gave a laugh that sounded hollow even to her.
'Oh, I'm not going to ride again.'
Joe shrugged and nodded. There was a thump of hooves from the neighboring corral and they both turned to watch the colts playing some equine version of tag. Joe bent and plucked a stem of grass and stood sucking it awhile.
'Pity,' he said.
'What?'
'Well, couple of weeks' time, Dad'll be driving the cattle up there to the summer pastures and we all go along. It's kinda fun, real pretty up there, you know?'
They went over to the colts and gave them some feed nuts Joe had in his pocket. As they walked back to the barn, Joe sucked his grass stem and Grace wondered why she went on pretending she didn't want to ride. Somehow she'd got herself trapped. And she felt, as with most things, that it probably had something to do with her mother.
Annie had surprised her by supporting the decision, so much so that Grace was suspicious. It was, of course, the stiff-upper-lip English way that when you fell off you climbed right back on so you didn't lose your nerve. And though what had happened was clearly more than a tumble, Grace had come to suspect Annie was playing some devious double-bluff, agreeing with Grace's decision only in order to prompt the opposite. The only thing that made her doubt this was Annie herself, after all these years, starting to ride again. Grace privately envied these morning rides with Tom Booker. But what was weird was that Annie must know it was almost guaranteed to put Grace off riding again herself.
Where though, Grace now wondered, did all this second-guessing get her? What was the point in denying her mother some maybe imaginary triumph, when it meant denying herself something she was now almost sure she wanted?
She knew she'd never ride Pilgrim again. Even if he got better, there would never be that trust between them again and he'd be sure to sense some lurking fear within her. But she could try riding some lesser horse maybe. If only she could do it without it all being a big deal, so that if she failed or looked stupid or something, it wouldn't matter.
They got to the barn and Joe opened the door and led the way in. All the horses were turned out now that the weather was warmer and Grace didn't know why he was bringing her in here. The click of her cane on the concrete floor echoed loudly. Joe took a left turn into the tack room and Grace stopped in the doorway, wondering what he was doing.
The room smelled of its new pine paneling and dressed leather. She watched him walk over to the rows of saddles that stood on their rests on the wall. When he spoke, it was over his shoulder, with the grass stem still in his teeth and his voice matter-of-fact, as if he were offering her a choice of sodas from the icebox.
'My horse or Rimrock?'
Annie regretted the invitation almost as soon as she'd issued it. The kitchen in the creek house wasn't exactly built for high cuisine, not that her cuisine was all that high anyway. Partly because she believed it more creative but mainly because she was too impatient, she cooked by instinct rather than recipe. And, apart from three or four stock dishes she could cook with her eyes shut, it was fifty-fifty whether something turned out brilliant or botched. This evening, she already felt, the odds were tilting more toward the latter.
She'd opted, safely she thought, for pasta. A dish they'd done to death last year. It was chic but easy. The kids would like it and there was even a chance Diane might be impressed. She'd also noticed Tom avoided eating too much meat and, more than she cared to admit to herself, she wanted to please him. There were no fancy ingredients. All she needed was penne regata, mozzarella and some fresh basil and sun-dried tomatoes, all of which she thought she'd be able to pick up in Choteau.
The guy in the store had looked at her as if she'd spoken in Urdu. She'd had to drive on down to the big supermarket in Great Falls and still couldn't find all she needed. It was hopeless. She'd had to rethink it on the spot and trudged the aisles, getting more and more annoyed, telling herself she'd be damned if she'd give in and serve them steak. Pasta she'd decided and pasta it would be. She ended up getting dried spaghetti, bottled bolognese sauce and a few trusty ingredients to spice it up so she could pretend it was her own. She checked out with two bottles of good Italian red and just sufficient pride intact.
By the time she'd got back to the Double Divide she felt better. She wanted to do this for them, it was the least she could do. The Bookers had all been so kind, even if Diane's kindness always seemed to have an edge to it. Whenever Annie had brought up the question of payment, for the rent and for the work he was doing with Pilgrim, Tom had brushed it aside. They'd settle up later, he said. She'd got the same response from Frank and Diane. So the dinner party tonight was Annie's interim way of thanking them.
She put the food away and carried the stack of newspapers and magazines she'd bought in Great Falls over to the table under which there was already a small mountain of them. She'd already checked her machines for messages. There had been only one, on E mail, from Robert.
He'd been hoping to fly out and spend the holiday weekend with them but at the last minute was summoned to a meeting on Monday in London. From there he had to go on to Geneva. He'd phoned last night and spent half an hour apologizing to Grace, promising he'd come out soon. The E mail note was just a joky one he'd sent as he was about to leave for JFK, written in some cryptic language he and Grace called cyberspeak which Annie only half understood. At the bottom he'd drawn a computer-generated picture of a horse with a big smile on its face. Annie printed it out without reading it.
When Robert had told her last night that he wouldn't be coming, her first reaction had been relief. Then it had worried her that she should feel this and ever since she'd busily avoided analyzing further.
She sat down and wondered idly where Grace was. There had been nobody about down at the ranch when she drove back in from Great Falls. She guessed they were all indoors or around by the back corrals. She'd go and look when she'd caught up with the weeklies, the Saturday ritual she persisted with here, though it seemed to require a lot more effort. She opened Time magazine and bit into an apple.