As David angled his little truck up the curving drive, he saw Marcus Denton, the farm’s owner, riding a jump course in the west arena. He rode Smarty Pants, a big bay gelding from Smarty Jones lineage. The two of them arced up and over the jumps, porpoising against the twilight.

David slowed the truck to admire Marcus’s broad-shouldered form over the course: a simple-looking fold at the waist, hands up to the gelding’s crest, legs long and steady in the stirrups. It looked easy; David knew better. He’d fallen off twice while cantering the ring, the scanty English saddle a wobbly-feeling affair after growing up on a cattle farm and riding Western all his life.

David saw one of the farm’s senior grooms, standing at the gate. “Hola, Ramon!” he called.

“Buenos noches, senor. Como esta?” Ramon had emigrated from South America as a teenager and his accent was luscious, redolent with tones of coffee and chiles and sunsets.

“I’m fine,” David said. He nodded to Marcus. “He’s out there again.”

“Every night, senor, every night.” Ramon shook his head. “He ride ’til his legs shake. Two, three hours sometimes.”

“But he doesn’t compete?”

“Nunca.”

They watched Marcus figure eight through the jump course, guiding Smarty Pants with gentle reining, head turns and weight shift in the saddle. They took a corner, too sharply; Smarty Pants balked at a four-foot fence and sent Marcus crashing into the standard, knocking the first pole down. He pinwheeled over the horse’s neck, one arm out, the other over his head. David heard the thwock! of Marcus’s back on the PVC pole and Smarty’s nervous whinny. Marcus lay still in the sand between the jump standards.

Whoa, that looked bad.

David leaped out of his truck, and ran over the gravel of the drive, his long legs kicking up rock. He climbed through the ring’s fencing, four steps behind Ramon. David kept his eyes on Marcus, who hadn’t moved. Smarty Pants stood still near the jump, ears flicking anxiously about, popping his tail in agitation.
Ramon got to Marcus first.

“Don’t move him!” David shouted.

The gelding snorted and moved away as David tore through the arena. Ramon knelt down, one hand grasping Marcus’s wrist. “Boss? Boss, esta bien?”

Marcus lay on his back, damp arena sand clumped on his neck and face where he had fallen. His eyes were open, their soft brown filled with pain. He breathed through clenched teeth.

© 2006. Vincent Diamond. Reprint and sub rights available.

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