Free Nobody's Angel by Thomas Mcguane Page A

lips, hideous Protestant backgrounds, unnatural drive to honky-tonk as a specific against bad early religion and an evil landscape: bracing himself against Claire.
    She got out wearing knee-high boots, washed-out Wranglers, a hot-pink shirt and a good Ryon’s Panama straw. Long oak-blond hair disappearing between the shoulder blades in an endless braid.
    “Hello,” he said. “How are you, Claire?” The dumb grin forms. No drool in the mouth corners yet.
    “Just right,” she said. “And you, Patrick?” There was sweetness in her inquiry. Claire just kind of stood there and let the sun hit her, only her thumbs outside her pants.
    “What do we have in the back?” asked Patrick.
    “Got Tio’s horse.”
    “Aged horse?”
    “Four.”
    “Is he broke to ride?”
    “He is,” she said, “but he’s rank.”
    “What’s he do good?”
    “Turn around,” she said. “He’s real supple.”
    “What’s he do bad?”
    “Bite you. Fall on you. Pack his head in your lap. Never has bucked. But it’s in him.”
    “How do you like him shod?”
    “Just double-ought plates. Had little trailers in the back. We skipped that. He’ll run and slide. He’s still in a snaffle bit. You do as you like. But don’t thump on him. He can get right ugly.”
    “Why didn’t you take the horse to one of the guys around Tulsa?”
    “We’re gonna be here most years. We wanted to be able to see how the horse was going. Plus Tio wanted someone who was staying home with his horses.” The advent of the husband into the conversation dropped like an ice cube on a sunbather’s back. Could Claire have known the extent to which the horse was part of the arranging?
    “How come you call him American Express?”
    “Tio billed him out as ranch supplies. We named him after the card.”
    “Right …”
    “Tio would give you what you wanted for your mare. You could go on and bill the accountants in Tulsa.”
    “She’s just not for sale. But I appreciate it.”
    “How’s she bred?” Claire asked.
    “Rey Jay.”
    “That can’t hurt.”
    “The only way blood like that can hurt you is if you don’t have it.”
    You had to reach through to get the butt chain, past the dust curtain and the levered doors. Through the interstices of a green satiny blanket, the horse’s color could be seen: black and a mile deep. Looked to be fifteen hands. Squeezing his butt back till the chain indented a coupleinches: a bronco. She said, “This colt can look at a cow.” She said “cow” Southwestern style: “kyao.”
    “I believe I’ll unload him, then, and put a saddle on him and put him before a very kyao.”
    She said, “If he don’t lock down, give him back.” Patrick thought: I won’t give him back if all he can do is pull a cart.
    The stud unloaded himself very carefully, turned slowly around on the halter rope and looked at Patrick. A good-looking horse with his eyes in the corners of his head where they’re supposed to be; keen ears and vividly alert.
    Claire looked at her watch. “Y’know what? I’m going to just let you go on and try the horse. If I don’t get back, Tio’s going to pitch a good one.”
    “Well, call me up and I’ll tell you how we got along.” A rather testy formality had set in. The electric door at closing time.
    She scribbled the accountants’ address in Tulsa for training bills and then she was gone, the clatter of the empty trailer going downhill behind the silent anthracite machine to the great space toward town. Patrick tried to conclude something from the aforegoing, rather cool, rather unencouraging conversation, then suddenly grew irritated with himself, thinking, What business is this of mine? I’m just riding a horse for a prosperous couple from Oklahoma. Nobody else even knows I’m out of the Army. I shall do as instructed and bill the accountants in Tulsa.
    Patrick absentmindedly led the horse toward the barn, trailing him at the end of the lead shank, the horse behind and not visible to him.