Free Emma and the Cutting Horse by Martha Deeringer Page A

hotshot
friends in the hall, they say, ‘Howdy, hayseed’ or ‘Hey, farm
girl,’ or some other put-down.”
    “What do you say?” Kyle asked.
    “I usually don’t say anything; I just keep on
walking and act like I didn’t hear it. Then I’m mad at myself for
being such a coward.”
    “It doesn’t make you a coward just because
you refuse to be as nasty as she is,” Kyle said.
    One late afternoon Emma and Kyle walked the
horses slowly through the cattle that were scattered across the
back pasture searching out the new growth that pushed up through
the dry, dead grass of winter. The cattle were used to horses and
looked up for a moment from their grazing, then went back to
eating. In a small grove of trees, they stopped to watch a newborn
calf trying to get to its feet. The cow was worried about the
nearness of the horses and moved between them and her new baby.
Emma and Kyle sat in silence, watching as the calf finally got his
feet under him and staggered around for a minute or two, his legs
splayed wide for balance. Then, as though drawn by a magnet, he
made his way to the cow’s udder and began to suck. His tail waggled
as the first drops of milk filled his mouth. It was getting late,
but Emma didn’t want to break the spell cast by the setting sun and
the quiet moment. The pinkish sunlight streamed through the trees,
dappling the horses and the cow and calf. Emma noticed that a bank
of clouds was building to the north. Rosie’s head drooped, and she
looked like she might be dozing, but Ditto was impatient to be
moving again. He had an internal clock that knew when it was
suppertime.
    “We’d better start back before it rains,”
Emma said
    “All right, Madeline, if you insist,” Kyle
said, reining Rosie toward the house.
    The sky had darkened, the wind picked up, and
a few raindrops were starting to fall before they made it home.
    Emma’s dad waved at them from the front porch
as they rode past.
    “Come in for a minute when you’re finished
with the horses, Kyle,” he called out.
    “Uh, oh,” Kyle grimaced. “Do you think he’s
upset with me for keeping you out too long?”
    “You didn’t keep me out. I wanted to watch
that calf as much as you did. Anyway, he didn’t look upset to me.
When he gets upset, you’ll know it!”
    Emma’s dad had removed his gun belt and was
searching the bowels of the refrigerator for the mustard when they
came in.
    “Want to stay and have a hamburger, Kyle?” he
asked. The glorious scent of frying hamburgers filled the
kitchen.
    “I’d better not. My mom will be expecting me
for supper. But thanks.”
    “I asked you to come in because we’re going
over to watch Miss Dellfene work tomorrow, and I thought you might
like to come along.”
    “Sure. I’d love to!” Kyle answered.
    “Be here by one o’clock then,” he said, and
turned back to the refrigerator to continue his search.
     

 
    Chapter
Eight
     
    Emma hurried through a light fog the next
morning to put in some time with Camaro before they went to watch
Miss Dellfene’s workout. As usual, her father had already been to
the horse pens and fed the horses. Camaro searched her feed tub for
any stray oats she might have missed while Emma got a currycomb and
brush and went to work on her coat. Despite their similar ages,
Camaro was already considerably taller than Miss Dellfene, probably
close to 15 hands. Her sire was over 16 hands, so she likely wasn’t
through growing yet. Emma made a mental note to bring a tape
measure down and measure her from the top of her withers to the
ground. Four inches was a hand in horse measurement.
    Beneath her glowing spring coat, muscles
bulged in Camaro’s forearms, chest and hindquarters. She was
descended from the old “bulldog” quarter horses with their square,
muscular bodies and explosive speed. Her ancestors had carried the
Texas cattle industry on their broad backs through early Texas
history and into the modern age, and they were still the