Owen's Daughter (20 page)

“Your business is my first priority. I’m here because I want to be. So enough of that. Let’s grab some lunch at the place up the road.”

For the first time, Skye understood why her roommate, Nola, purged. “I’m sick from all those doughnuts.”

“No, you’re not. You just need real food, and so do I.” He pointed to the Teahouse restaurant, on the left side of the road, with a couple of cars in its parking lot. “We’re already here.”

“All right,” she said, “but I don’t want you spending all your money on me. Let’s split a sandwich.”

He smiled. “I believe I can cover two whole sandwiches while we plan our next move in this caper.”

Overhead, tree branches were busting with leaves that would carry them through the hot summer. Already the servers were wearing T-shirts and miniskirts. Her dad was old, but he looked like she remembered him, that easy grin, the crinkles at the edges of his eyes. “Daddy,” she said, “where have you been all my life?”

He leashed the dog and tied him to a bicycle rack. Then he took off his hat as they went into the Teahouse to grab a table. “Oh, making one stupid move or another. Guess it took me sixty years to get a smidgen of wisdom. But earning it is better than having it just show up.” He laid his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close for a hug.

When Skye was ten, when she was still Sara Kay, she clomped around the house in her cowboy boots loud enough to wake the dead. Her dad could tune it out; her mother seemed to take it personally that she had zero skills in the manners department. Sheila found some ridiculous “etiquette seminar for young ladies” and enrolled her. The lessons took place in LoDo, a part of Denver that was pretty ritzy now, but it hadn’t been back then. The class was held in the banquet room of some hotel that had seen better days. Later, it would be torn down and replaced with a Westin. Sara Kay was positive she was going to despise these afternoons, which included tea, stale pastries, and the nasal voice of Mrs. Wadsworth, a stocky old lady who wore flowered dresses that hit her midknee. It was probably for the best, Sara thought; Mrs. Wadsworth’s legs could pass for sugar pine tree trunks. Sheila attended the first meeting, but after that, she just dropped Sara off and went shopping, and once or twice she’d come back with flushed cheeks and wine on her breath. At the second meeting, the young ladies listened with attention. “Girls,” Mrs. Wadsworth said, “how many of you dress for dinner?”

Sara had snorted with laughter, imagining, like all of the other girls, her parents naked. Mrs. Wadsworth had given her the major fisheye and said, “Sara Kay, perhaps you’d like to share with the class what you find so amusing?”

“No, ma’am,” she said, thinking that would be the end of it.

Mrs. Wadsworth picked up her clipboard that held the forms each girl had filled out in cursive writing. “I see here that your father’s occupation is listed as farrier. Can you explain what exactly that entails?”

“He shoes horses, ma’am.”

“What an unusual career choice that is in this day and age.” Mrs. Wadsworth smiled ever so slightly. “Girls, any of you have a father who shoes horses for a living?”

“My dad’s a physician,” one girl said. Another said, “College professor.” And still others: “Attorney” and “CEO.” Every single one of the occupations stung like a wasp. Sara wanted to staple that old biddy’s lips shut. But the damage was done. Finally, when they returned to the subject at hand, most of the girls said they dressed up on Sundays, for church and breakfast in a nice restaurant, or when they stayed at a grandmother’s house. Candy Pierce said, “Oh, my mother and I love to dress up and go shopping, or to see a fashion show. And it’s good practice for when I come out.”

“Come out of what?” Skye asked. “A coma?”

Candy smiled. “When I’m introduced to the world, you know, as a debutante.”

“Very good,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.

Sara made a note to look the word up later. For now she’d shut her mouth and pretend that made sense.

“It’s always helpful to practice one’s manners,” Mrs. Wadsworth said, cocking her head and looking directly at Sara. “The idea is that one can better her station no matter what background she comes from.”

Sara felt her face go crimson. She wasn’t a crier—she hated crybabies—but her eyes welled with tears.

Later, while practicing the proper way to sit down, a girl named Kaitlyn nudged her knee into Sara’s under the table. She had French braids and the cutest navy-blue jacket, more like a blazer, really, fitted at the waist. It made her look at least fourteen years old. Sara looked up miserably, but Kaitlyn winked at her. “If your dad’s a farrier, you must ride horses, right?”

Sara nodded. “I have a Leopard Appy, Lightning.”

“Where do you board?”

“Cherry Creek in Aurora,” Sara whispered to her.

“Me too!” Kaitlyn whispered. “Want to go riding on Sunday?”

“I don’t know,” Sara said. “I might be all tied up with dressing for dinner.”

Kaitlyn laughed out loud, and here came Mrs. Wadsworth, who pulled her up by a shoulder and said, “Clearly you two should not be sitting together.”

Even across the room, having a friend made manners class tolerable. Kaitlyn, of the beautiful, perfect teeth, white-blond hair, and adorable clothing, wanted her to go on a trail ride. The rest of the class went by quickly. At home that night, she did exactly as Mrs. Wadsworth instructed. She asked her parents if they could dress for dinner every Thursday night.

“Why Thursday?” her father asked.

“It could be Wednesday or Sunday, if you’d rather. You know, just to practice my manners.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” her mom said. “What do you think, Billy?”

“I think I’ve got to go shopping.”

All his shirts were flannel, which always felt soft when he hugged her.

Since things were proceeding so well, she had another question. “Daddy, why don’t we have a horse trainer?”

“What would we do with one of those?” he said, laughing. “You have Valerie, don’t you?”

“She’s just a riding teacher. A trainer can teach you how to ride to win.”

“Last time I checked, we all knew how to ride. Red and Lightning are pretty good at it.”

Sara made sure to leave three uneaten bites on her plate, because a girl needed to show she could leave something behind. She pushed her chair in after dinner. Then she began clearing the plates.

“Don’t you dare laugh at that little girl, you big old has-been Okie clodhopper,” her mom said when Sara was in the kitchen, rinsing the dishes to put into the dishwasher. They had to know she heard them. Her mom said, “I’m trying to help her fit in with higher-class people so she can have a better life than this. Hell’s bells, Billy. It’s the basics of etiquette. Good manners. Something you never learned one iota about.”

She knew her dad felt bad hearing that. It was as if her mother’s words were blunt arrows with poisonous tips.

“I apologize, Sheila. If it’s that important to you, find me a book on it and I’ll do my best to learn how to act higher-class.”

Sara peeked around the corner. Her mom’s withering stare told the whole story. Her parents’ marriage had seemed rocky as far back as she could remember. They fought with hushed voices, and then they made up all lovey-dovey, but it never lasted.

At the stables the next weekend, Sara discovered there was another side to the riding school, where girls wore English riding pants and black leather knee-high boots. They “posted” the trot, which looked crazy to Sara, on hornless saddles and wore those National Velvet hats that her dad referred to as brain buckets.

On Sundays, Sara started going with her dad when he shoed horses. She rode Lightning with a fleece bareback pad rather than let Kaitlyn see her crappy old western saddle. It had belonged to her dad when he was a kid. Kaitlyn taught Sara “leg leads,” the difference between “cantering in hand” versus the lope. Lightning caught on quickly, but when it came to jumping the fences, he refused every single one.

“You should ask your parents for a Haflinger,” Kaitlyn said, “or maybe a Lipizzaner.”

“What are those?”

Kaitlyn’s laugh was like listening to tinkling bells. “You must not have a Breyer horse collection.”

“I never heard of that.”

Kaitlyn gave her a history lesson. Haflingers descended from wild horses that once roamed the Alps. They were first imported to the United States in the 1960s. Some went to Canada, others Illinois. They were strong and had a steady temperament. “You know the history of the Lipizzaner, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sara said, making a note to look the word up at home.

Kaitlyn said, “Thank goodness. Otherwise I’d have to spend another hour explaining all that. Prince is half Lipizzaner, but his line goes back to Maestoso. He was born in Slovenia. That’s in Europe.”

“How did you get him here?”

“My dad had him FedExed.”

No way, Sara thought, but she said, “He’s really pretty. You’re so lucky.”

“You want to know why Prince wins at horse shows?”

“Because you’re a great rider.”

Kaitlyn laughed. “I wish. He was trained in
haute école
.” Sara looked at her blankly. “You know, the Spanish Riding School, where they teach Lipizzaners to perform ‘airs above the ground.’ Watch this.
Le passage.
”

Kaitlyn gave Prince her right leg, no kicking or anything, a gentle press Sara might not otherwise have noticed. She laid the rein on his neck. Sara could convince Lightning to move sideways, but it took reins and a swift kick. After that first thing, Kaitlyn began cueing Prince to change leads. The horse looked as though he were skipping. How was she doing that? Sara had no idea a horse could do that. It looked like ballet.

Kaitlyn walked Prince back to where Sara waited. “He was trained to perform to Strauss’s
Beliebte Annen Polka
. Once he hears the music, he practically does the routine himself. The only move he can’t do is the
levade
. That’s why he was so cheap. Only eight thousand. When I grow out of him, Dad promised to buy me a mare, and she can have babies.” Kaitlyn reached into her jacket pocket and fed Prince three sugar cubes.

That Sunday, after shoeing horses all day, her dad showered, shaved, and put on his nicest pants and a new white shirt. He even dabbed on some of that awful cologne Sara had given him a couple of Christmases back, because what do you give a dad, other than a new razor, when he already had one of those? Her mom had roasted a chicken. At the table, her dad said, “Sheila, that is a right pretty flower arrangement.”

“It’s called a
centerpiece
,” her mom said, and snapped open her cloth napkin and laid it on her lap. “Let’s all say grace.”

“What’s grace?” Sara asked. Her mom said, “It’s a blessing to show we’re grateful for all we have.”

Her dad said, “It’s a prayer, like your mom says, but the word has more than one meaning. Grace also means making your way with dignity through difficult circumstances.”

Her dad hadn’t ever gone to church that she knew of. She waited, wondering if grace was silent. Then her father said, “Bless this meal and we who are about to eat. Amen.”

Sara echoed him. Surely her mom would be nicer to him for doing that.

Her dad cut up the chicken and served her mom first. Then to Sara, he said what he always did when they had chicken: “Guess what?”

Sara was supposed to reply, “Chicken butt.” It was their special routine. But she couldn’t say that anymore because it was bad manners. “I’ll have a drumstick, please.”

He looked at her funny but gave her what she wanted.

Halfway through dinner, she piped up, “Can we trade my western saddle in for an English one?”

“What’s wrong with your saddle?”

“It’s not English.”

Her father set down his fork. “I learned to ride on that saddle. It was made by a great saddle maker, Clint Mortenson.”

Sara knew—she soaped it clean every time she used it. “It’s a great saddle, Daddy, but to learn how to jump, you need an English saddle. A hunt seat.”

“Jumping,” her dad said, flatly this time. “Lightning’s the best cow pony I’ve ever seen. He’ll take you over a ditch when you need him to.”

“Not fences, Daddy. But with the right saddle, he might.”

“Sara Kay, he’s a western horse. You can do pole bending, run barrels with him, and even calf rope.”

“That’s another thing. Kaitlyn says I should get a Haflinger mare or a Friesian gelding.”

“What about Lightning?”

Sara looked down at her plate, then up at her mom, who was pouring another glass of wine, her mouth already pursed up for the fight that would come later. “We could find him a good home.”

Her dad about choked. He folded his cloth napkin, laid it on the table, and then said, “That was a lovely dinner, Sheila. Excuse me.” He got up from his chair and walked out of the room.

Her mom reached over the table and placed her hand on Sara’s. “You keep on aiming high, girl. I’ll talk to your dad.”

But that night in bed, imagining Lightning headed off in a trailer to God knew where made Sara feel as if there were a wind wailing inside her stomach. She did love Lightning. He loved her, too, and that soft nickering he breathed into her neck was better than anything, even candy. He liked apples and carrots, especially the green parts. She couldn’t sleep. Down the hall she heard the angry tones of her parents arguing.