Horseflies

By Cristina Arthur

He was snoozing next to Topper and Brigette, and though they didn’t move their heads, all of them twitched their ears in my direction as I approached. I ran a hand over every rump in greeting and then stood quietly next to Pauper, not needing to use words, but just to feel the safety of his presence. My sweet show-horse-turned-warhorse had me feeling a little less scared after his terrible, wonderful display. I leaned into his silky mane-covered neck and breathed in his warm, therapeutic scent. He was my constant companion, my protector, my best friend. I knew, there in that moment, how I wanted to ride into battle. It would be me and him, nothing between us, just like in the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647504649

Cristina Arthur

Cristina Arthur lives with her husband and three children in north Texas, where she teaches high school art. Before earning her BFA in Art History so she could share her passion for creativity, she spent eight years in the army where she started out as a Blackhawk helicopter crew chief, and then eventually became a pilot. In her spare time she writes her novels, paints, and enjoys the appaloosa horses they raise on their small farm.

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About the Author

Cristina Arthur lives with her husband and three children in north Texas, where she teaches high school art. Before earning her BFA in Art History so she could share her passion for creativity, she spent eight years in the army where she started out as a Blackhawk helicopter crew chief, and then eventually became a pilot. In her spare time she writes her novels, paints, and enjoys the appaloosa horses they raise on their small farm.

Dedication

for Eden

Copyright Information ©

Cristina Arthur (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Arthur, Cristina

Horseflies

ISBN 9781647504625 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781647504632 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647504649 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021909897

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

The process of writing my first book will always hold a special place in my heart, and it would not have been possible without the incredible support of my family. My patient husband supported me every step of the way, quite literally. As I recovered from a hysterectomy and typed away in bed, he kept the kids fed and the household running. He believed in me every step of the way, and never complained when I shut my door to work into the wee hours of the night. My devoted sister, who read the first drafts and provided much needed feedback and encouragement, was priceless throughout this process. I love you both. And lastly, my publisher, who took a chance on an unknown author, thank you. You have made a childhood dream come true.

Chapter 1

I stepped out of our brown mid-century modern house and into a wintery calm. Nestled on a small hill between a handful of massive evergreens, everything about our home lately felt as calm and cold as the weather outside this morning. The snow was crusted over on top and crunched beneath my rubber boots, turning to muddy slush as I made the short trek down the slope and around the azaleas to the barn. A glimmer of deep pink hues caught my attention, and I looked eastward to admire the sun, making its appearance on the Southern Oregon horizon. I managed to dodge one of the nearby pines trying to relieve its heavy boughs of the snow before I made it to the safety of the metal structure.

The creaking of the big door rolling open solicited a hungry nicker from the darkness within. The familiar sound tugged a half smile to my lips until the light came on with the flick of a finger, and there it was; The Mare Stare. My smile disappeared. Zara impatiently pawed at the wooden wall of her stall, pinning her ears back in typical fashion, looking like she might eat me as much as the roughage I came to offer. I swear it was like she didn’t want to be happy. Most animals were easy to please with a scratch and a treat. Not this one. It was a practically a suicide trip every time I ventured out to complete my chores.

I didn’t mind pitching in to help out, and actually enjoyed the early morning’s vigorous activities. It woke me up and got me ready for my day. Mucking the stall clean, changing the bucket for clean water, the smell of the fresh hay…but that mare, ugh. I had learned the hard way not to enter the stall when turning her out for the day. After what felt like a near-death experience the first time, I now went all the way around the barn and opened the stall from the outside, dropping the pin in place, so Zara could come and go as she pleased during the day.

Sometimes, the devil would come roaring out in a whirl of grey fury and I had to flatten myself against the open door to stay clear of potential teeth or flying hooves. Sometimes, she wouldn’t come out at all and I would have to chase her out, so I could get the stall cleaned.

There wasn’t even the slightest chance of getting a blanket on that mare, cold or not, her shaggy coat would have to do. She had shelter and I had difficulty feeling any pity for her. But I charged on faithfully in my duty. It’s not like Dad knew the first thing about what the horse needed, and it was the least I could do for Mom. Just the thought of my mother brought a lump to my throat, though tears didn’t well up, and I supposed that was some small sign that things were getting easier.

Julissa Hackbern had loved that mare unconditionally, faults and all. How many times had I heard the story about how she first saw her as a weanling in the pasture of the big warmblood farm in Roseburg? The feisty filly had legs for days, and grey characteristics that were already beginning to show. She had known right then that she had to have her, and Grandpa caved when he bought her as an early Christmas present for Mom as soon as Zara was weaned at six months old. Mom was a senior in high school at the time and the only partner that mare had known since almost 20 years ago. By the time Mom graduated college, her and Zara were competing in their first shows, flying over impossibly high fences, and dancing around the dressage ring as one. They were best friends long before I was born, or even before she met Dad. I knew how much this ornery animal meant to her. So, despite her apparent inability to bond with or even be handled by anyone else, and perhaps because of her creaky joints and drooping back, but mostly because Mom had loved her so dearly, I would care for her until the end.

Before the freak accident that took her from us, Mom loved it when I would come to the barn with her, especially when I was little and she was still showing. Dad had to work, so it was our special time together; just the two of us traipsing around the state in her trusty pick-up truck and rusted old trailer. She used to call me her little golden girl, even after I was no longer small and somehow turned out as a tall blonde girl with parents that were short brunettes.

The show horses were so pretty, and I always drew them in my notebook as I admired the colorful, shiny coats, the braided manes, and the breathtaking beauty of their movement. But I was timid around those large creatures and preferred to admire them from a distance. Not that I didn’t want to get close, but if I was being honest with myself, they scared me.

How something could be beautiful and terrifying at the same time was more than I cared to work out, so I didn’t try. Instead, I appreciated them as a spectator and was my mother’s biggest supporter. Her fearlessness never ceased to amaze me, forever in pursuit of the thrill of the ride. No matter how many times she fell off, she always picked herself up with a grin, took the challenge head on, and got right back up in that saddle.

As I grew older, I slowly took on more responsibility to help out while we were on the road; she showed me how to feed by portioning out the timothy hay and crimped oats, then how to clean stalls, and eventually how to clean the tack. I never had the desire to put that tack on the horse myself, or, more accurately, get close to Zara, but the smell of leather and saddle soap would forever remind me of the ache in my heart.

Zara was much more tolerant of others when Mom was still around, but lately was almost unmanageable. Mom’s horse show friends came by a few times, checking to see if Dad and I were alright, and gave advice on how to manage the unruly mare. Some of them even offered to bring her to their farms and let her retire with the other former show horses at pasture. Zara was long past being able to give anyone a ride or be of any real practical use, but I felt like it would be giving up, so I always politely declined. Horrible a brat as she could be, Zara was the only thing I had left of Mom in a tangible, living way. So, I put up with mare, perhaps unaware at the time of the grumpy outlook we both shared on life.

After cleaning myself up and just barely getting my beat up Honda to start in the cold, I headed to school. Tidy but unimpressive, the car still got me from point A to point B, and I was grateful for it. Mom had taken me shopping for my 16th birthday in early September, and we picked it out together. I had been so excited for the independence, and especially the freedom from having to ride the bus to school anymore. But the novelty quickly wore off when my mother was killed a few days later in her car. After the accident, I wouldn’t drive at all for at least a month. Dad helped me overcome those anxieties, but now it was simply a dreaded part of my mind-numbing routine to get through the day.

Every mile that passed had me wishing the Christmas break would hurry up and get here. One more week, I could make it. Things had improved slightly, but I sometimes still got the looks of pity and noticed those that walked on eggshells around me. That caused me to retreat into myself even more. I dropped cross-country as soon as I got back to school, avoiding anyone outside of the mandatory classes. My best friend, Kenady, moved to California over the summer and there was no one I could turn to here. Mom was my only other best friend. I now felt utterly and completely alone. I even initially tried to get Dad to let me homeschool, so I didn’t have to deal with what awaited me now.

It was the only thing he had ever been adamant about refusing me. I knew he believed that it would be good for me to be around kids my age, stay social, blah, blah, blah. But did he care about what I wanted? Or how I felt? I loved him, and knew he meant well, but we had never spent very much time together, and he hardly knew me at all. We were suddenly thrust into being just the two of us. And it was awkward. Mom had been the glue to everything, and until she was gone, neither of us had realized just how much we each depended on her. It made me angry—at everything. Everything was unfair. Everything hurt. Everything that once brought me joy was now miserable. If Dad had died, Mom would have known exactly what to say and helped me cope. Mom always had the perfect answer, even if the answer was sometimes only silence, with the simple presence of being there for me, no matter what. But Dad, Dad was clueless. I felt bad for even thinking it, but it was true.

I didn’t want to be around those stupid people all day, with their petty problems and high school drama. I didn’t want to be a part of it. And yet, he made me come. Every. Damn. Day. The first week or so he let me sleep in and stay home, to shut the world away. After that, he told me I had to go back, and keep living. Push through each day, no matter how hard. The anger bubbled up inside me again and it only continued to grow. My tears had dried up about a month ago, and they had been replaced with a cold, hardened outlook on life. I knew that might change with the approaching holidays, my first without Mom. The tears would probably come out in a torrent like before. But right now, all I felt was anger at the unfairness of it all.

I was lost in my negative thoughts on the way to school, not paying attention to the dropping speedometer. I parked and grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat of the car, hearing the first bell ring its warning. Great. I slammed the driver side door and hurried across the parking lot. Without warning, my feet went out from under me on the ice, and my tailbone met the pavement without mercy. Aaaaah! I couldn’t help but yelp as I went down. I grunted in an effort to get up, but couldn’t seem to find my footing. Whoa there, hang on, said a friendly male voice. A large hand wrapped around my elbow and tugged me to my feet. Startled, I looked up and met the crinkling brown eyes of Reece Stutton smiling at me.

You okay? he inquired.

Um, yea. I think so, I said dumbly.

You sure? he replied as I slid around Bambi-like, suddenly unable to walk anymore, apparently. He hadn’t let go of my arm yet and continued to hold me steady. Dear Lord, this was mortifying.

Thanks, was all I could manage, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks.

Maybe I should walk you in? he offered, with humor in his eyes. But his tone was genuine, so I accepted, regardless of how much I hated feeling like the damsel-in-distress.

I’ll catch up to you guys, Reece hollered to his friends, and they ran ahead, throwing snowballs and cackling at each other like a pack of hyenas. He looped his arm through mine for better leverage and I held on with both hands until we stepped up to the sidewalk, whose rougher surface seemed to be more welcoming to my slick bottomed shoes.

They really should salt the parking lot, he said. We’re into December now, and I’ve seen three fender-benders here since we got back from Thanksgiving break.

Or, I could just get to school on time and not attempt to run on this ice rink, I countered, conceding to my fault. I let go of his arm and felt the tension in my shoulders begin to release.

It’s easy to sleep-in on these cold mornings, I’m just as guilty. But glad I was late today, or who would have saved you? he teased.

My knight-in-shining-armor, no doubt, I replied with a hint of sarcasm I couldn’t avoid. I am not always so helpless. But thanks for the lift, I said, still feeling embarrassed and resigned to my pitiful fate.

At your service, m’lady, he replied with a grand sweep of his arm and a bow. He paused only briefly before he casually said, We missed you at the end of the season. Will you be running track and field this year? I’d completely forgotten he was on the cross country team, that whole part of fall was mostly a blur for me. I suddenly felt very nervous and he noticed.

You’re a great runner, it would be a shame to give it up completely.

Are you? Going to run track, I mean, I asked to take the spotlight off myself.

No, it’s baseball in the spring for me.

Oh, I felt a tinge of disappointment. Wait, duh! He was one of their star players, the pitcher if I remembered correctly. I suddenly felt foolish for asking; everyone knew how good he was.

Well, hey, I’m headed the other way, he said as we walked through the double doors, But I’ll see you in geometry?

Yea. Maybe you can help me make sense of all those angles, I answered, my lame attempt at being friendly. Or flirting. Was I flirting? Surely not.

Only if you help me make sense of Shakespeare in lit., he replied, with a hint of mischief dancing across the features of his handsome face.

It’s a deal, I said. Then he winked at me before he turned to walk down the hall. I pondered that small miracle as I headed in the opposite direction to biology class.

Reece Stutton was a catch by anyone’s standards. He was at least six feet tall and broad across the shoulders for a high schooler. His stature wasn’t that of a gym-rat, but came more from having a life of honest work on the farm. He had rutty brown hair that hung in lazy waves around his ears and down to his strong, square jawline. I noticed flecks of gold and green in his brown eyes just moments ago, which were in perfect proportion to the rest of his face. His nose was broad, but straight, and his lips turned up just a little more toward the cleft than most, usually lifted to one side in a silly grin. He was charming, unassuming, and friendly to everyone. I didn’t know a single girl who hadn’t crushed on him at some point or another.

Somehow, my personal-horror-turned-positive-mishap in the parking lot set the tone for the rest of the day, and I survived it less treacherously than usual. Reece made an unexpected beeline for me in second period and we partnered up for a group project. He was attentive to my questions, never condescending, and lightened the mood of what was normally a dreary math class with his cheesy jokes. I may have even smiled a couple times. I ate my lunch alone as usual, but reassigned myself to the courtyard and sketched fairies and horses while I nibbled on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Later in the afternoon, Reece again sought me out in lit. class, and I made good on my promise to decode what he dubbed the foreign language of Hamlet. When he nonchalantly asked me if we could study together sometime after school for the finals at the end of the week, I agreed before I could chicken out and say no. For many reasons, I would later look back on that day as a turning point in the healing process from the loss of my mom.

When I got home just before four, I was in a surprisingly good mood. I didn’t have any homework and I wanted to do something. I rummaged through the cupboards to see what we had in stock. I’m not sure I could stomach another pizza or frozen meal Dad was bound to bring home. I called him at the office, and when he didn’t answer, I left a message telling him not to worry about dinner, it would be ready when he got here. I found some pasta (that couldn’t go stale, could it?) and some frozen vegetables. Without any meat on hand, it would have to do. But it was still too early to eat… What to do?

I took one look around me, really looked, and knew the answer. The house had always been immaculate when Mom was here. This eclectic, funky space she had designed so carefully was dirty. I hadn’t noticed before how things had been left undone lately. For far too long. I mean, we took the trash out and washed the dishes, but that was mostly out of necessity. There was a film of dust over everything. In the kitchen, it was a grimy film. I almost gagged. It was like I was seeing my house through someone else’s eyes for the first time. I didn’t know if the invitation to study meant my place or his, but I instantly realized how horrified I would be if Reece came to my house.

I was suddenly very eager to clean. After wiping the kitchen down and dusting everything else, I pulled the vacuum out. I found dust bunnies as big as Thumper in some corners and was shocked by how frequently I had to empty the bagless container. I threw out the old food from the fridge and wiped it down and then decided I might as well clean the microwave while I was at it. After that, I dug through the basement shelves, found some unused candles, and lit a rather Christmas-y cinnamon and spice scented one in the living room.

Looking at the clock, I realized Dad wouldn’t be home for an hour yet, so I bashfully snuck back into his and Mom’s room. I hadn’t gone back there in forever. The small reminders, even the smell of her may have normally sent me sobbing, but I was struck by how much of Dad’s current state I saw. His clothes were in hap-hazard piles everywhere, the bed was rumpled and un-made (likely un-made and un-washed for the last two months by the looks of it), and the disarray peeking at me through the open door to the bathroom had me wondering if I really wanted to go in there.

Okay, I could do this. I started by trying to sort which clothes were clean and which ones merely needed to be put away. After a load of laundry was started, I armed myself with bleach and went into his bathroom. I worked mindlessly for 30 minutes, going thoroughly over every surface in that space. I had always hated cleaning, but this felt different. It felt good. I didn’t know why, but watching everything transform into cleanliness, into newness, felt good. It was almost therapeutic. I made a mental note to do this once a week. I had helped Mom with cleaning here and there before, but she had been the one to take charge of it and saw that it got done. I guess that was my role now. Like Zara.

I had just dumped the pasta in boiling water on the stove when I heard Dad pull in. I kept at my task, steaming vegetables, melting some butter for a garlic sauce, and was about to finish setting the table for two when Dad walked in the front door. Wow, it smells amazing in here! he called as he came through the main hall. I guess I should put this lasagna in the freezer? he said in a tone of mock hurt.

Ha. Ha. I’ve had enough lasagna in the last two months to last me until I graduate, was my playful reply. The truth of that reflected in his eyes. Maybe he thought I was directing that at him.

Why do you think I got finally got off my butt and decided to try my hand at cooking?

His tight smile broadened as he said, Thank you, Audrey. I’m sure a home-cooked meal is just what we both need.

Mom’s recipe book had a few that were simple enough for me to tackle. And didn’t you get my message? I left one on your answering machine at the office, so you wouldn’t have to worry about dinner.

Oh, sorry, hon. I was away from the office this afternoon.

As if trying to avoid my eyes, he directed his gaze around the house just then, and got misty.

You’ve been busy today. The place looks great, he came over and gave me a hug. I never intended for you take on all the household chores yourself. I’ll chip in when I can. Why don’t we make a list of who does what and figure out something that works, so we can each help with the extra stuff? he suggested. I might be gone all day, but you have school, and homework, and whatever else, too… he trailed, (trying to make me feel like I had a social life, maybe?). How does that sound? I hugged him in return and pulled back quickly.

Oh! I almost forgot the noodles, I need to get them off the stove or they will be mush!

He laughed and said, Okay, but then put the lid over them and come out back, I need your help. I looked quizzically at him as he walked back out the front door. Doing as he said, I rinsed the noodles in the strainer, put them back in the pot with a lid, and grabbed my coat on my way out into the crisp air.

Dad was backing the truck and horse trailer towards the barn. Mom’s truck was usually parked on the other side of the barn, and his car in the garage. I didn’t realize he’d taken the truck today. Oh, that’s right, we were almost out of hay and I had mentioned it to him yesterday. He must have taken the trailer to get hay, so it wouldn’t get wet in case it snowed on his way home. When he put the truck in park just in front of the big sliding door, I opened the passenger door to get my work gloves.

Whatcha doing, sweetie? You don’t need those.

You said you wanted my help. Don’t you want me to stack the hay? I asked, confused.

He chuckled, Yes, but not right now. We’ll get to that.

Okay. What’s up?

I have your Christmas present in there. Help me get him off, was all he said.

What? In the trailer? Christmas is like two weeks away still.

Why don’t you just come see, then? This can’t wait that long.

He couldn’t keep the smile off his face now. As I walked around to the back of the trailer, he already had the doors open and then a shrill neigh whistled through the silence. I stared at my dad, and then at the dainty muzzle that just barely bobbed out of the back of the trailer. I hardly noticed when Zara’s returning whinny sounded in the background. What in the… I looked back at my dad, and then came around to fully see inside the trailer.

The most pitiful creature I had ever seen stood there on shaky legs, like he was trying to decide whether or not he should come out. I was trying to process this thing, this horse, I suppose he was, when Dad handed me the lead rope after he snapped it to the halter. I gave him a dumbfounded look and he just said, Let’s get him settled in the other stall, and then I’ll tell you everything.

I didn’t have words. I could only do what he said. I looked back at the horse, which looked more like a walking corpse. He was a dingy white, almost yellow with long patches of that almost-yellow hanging in places, but bald in others. Ribs and hips and bones poked out of him everywhere; he was literally skin stretched over bones. Sores marked his elbows and hocks and ankles. There was hardly enough muscle to keep him standing upright on that frame. I guess that’s why he was so shaky. His mane was a dirty white, too, so I supposed his tail must be. But his face. Oh, that face. It nearly broke me. He had a long, tangled white forelock and big star with a partial stripe down his very dishy head and huge brown eyes that were full of fear. Even in all of his miserableness, his face was breathtakingly beautiful.

I saw that fear and it resonated deep within me. He needed a gentle hand. He had no reason to trust anyone. Would he freak out? Had he been mistreated and beaten? Would he try to bite me, like Zara? So I said in the sweetest voice, I could manage (only because my voice wanted to crack and break with the tears that threatened), Come here, boy, as I stood off to the side a bit, so he would have room to step down. His ears twitched back and forth and his eyes darted around, trying to take in all the new surroundings.

And then he just stepped down. I went with that forward momentum and walked him right down the concrete aisle to the end of the barn and into the empty stall next to Zara’s. She peered at him through the wire mesh, stamping and squealing like a pig. I was surprised to find fresh shavings already spread on the stall floor. I expected it to be dirt. There was also clean water in the bucket, and hay in the bin. My dad had made it ready for him all by himself? I guiltily realized he deserved so much more credit than I gave him. I un-clipped the lead from the