Free Solomon's Oak by Jo-Ann Mapson Page B

rail as he passed. The noise caught the mare’s attention. After a few of his laps, she followed him, muzzle in the air, sifting through scents. Then the wind came up, blew dirt around, and she spooked. It seemed as if any progress made were lost. But the carrot and the fence had created a new memory, a pleasant one, and eventually she became curious enough to allow him an inch closer on his laps, then to reach out and touch her, first with the carrot, then with his hand. In fifteen minutes, Gil was sacking her out with a saddle blanket. When the mare shrugged off the blanket, Gil picked it up and put it on again and again. When she was good with that, he walked to the center of the ring, a carrot in one hand and the blanket in the other. Twenty minutes went by and nothing happened. Glory was sure Gil would be giving out plenty of refunds.
    Instead, the horse came to Gil. She lipped him. He gave her half a carrot. Just for a moment, he placed his arms across the mare’s back, then stepped back. They went through this routine for an hour, at the end of which Gil had his full weight across her back and the horse, though nervous, did not rear or shy when he introduced a simple rope hackamore bridle. Gilbert pulled himself up on her back, and she stood there waiting for him to tell her what to do next. Then she whinnied. Glory, who knew the language of horses, recognized the “Let’s go” whinny born of longtime relationships. She could hardly swallow for the lump in her throat, and at that moment, the crusty old cowboy standing next to her burst into tears.
    “How did you do that?’ a woman asked.
    Gil turned to the crowd and said, “Patience and gentleness. When I was sixteen years old, I’d been arrested four times, and everyone gave up on me. Best thing that ever happened to me was getting thrown into the foster-care system, because this is the method my foster father used on me. Works on dogs, too, in case you’re interested.”
    Afterward, Dan and Glory drove south, stopping at the Giant Artichoke, a touristy restaurant in Castroville, where they each ordered a bowl of artichoke soup before driving the rest of the way home. She remembered Gil’s grin, the mare finally calming down, the smell of the hot soup, and the side order of deep-fried chokes, but she couldn’t recall a single word of her conversation with Dan. Forgetting made her panic. Seemed as if for every day that passed since last February 28, she lost another memory of Dan for good. There was no stopping it.
    She sat on the back steps wire-brushing dirt off just-gathered eggs while Juniper McGuire slept. The girl had cried herself to sleep, one hand dangling down to reach Cadillac, who stayed by her bedside. However excruciating it was for her to see the dog, Glory knew it made Juniper feel close to her sister. Glory sat on the bed for a long while. Every time Juniper sobbed, the vein in her neck pulsed, causing the bluebird tattoo to flex its wings. Glory wondered what the tat represented to Juniper and thought of Cecil, one of their foster boys, who was a “cutter.”
    He sliced lines into his left upper arm with razors, knives, whatever was handy. His scars were four ropy, purple lines that reminded Glory of a shipwreck survivor marking time on a tree trunk, IIII days, and poised to carve the fifth slash across the other four. As part of the agreement to keep Cecil, they checked his arms daily. He had hard days and setbacks, but while he was with the Solomons, he never did escalate to five. When he turned eighteen and moved out on his own, Dan gave him a hand-carved wooden cross. “When you feel the urge to cut yourself,” Dan said, “look at that cross and think about Jesus. He already sacrificed himself, son. You don’t need to do anything but be grateful.”
    Glory wished she believed in God enough to be able to give Juniper that kind of parting gift, but with all the girl had experienced, she was past religion. Today Caroline would take