Dear John(77)

When I nodded, Savannah took a step backward, then turned. Just as she reached the gate, she beckoned. “Do you want to give me a hand?”

I hesitated, glancing toward the house. She followed my gaze.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s not here, and I could really use the help.” Her voice was surprisingly steady.

Though I wasn’t sure what to make of her response, I nodded. “I’d be glad to.”

She waited for me and shut the gate behind us. She pointed to a pile of manure. “Watch out for their droppings. They’ll stain your shoes.”

I groaned. “I’ll try.”

In the barn, she separated a chunk of hay and then two more and handed them both to me.

“Just toss those in the troughs next to the others. I’m going to get the oats.”

I did as she directed, and the horses closed in. Savannah came out holding a couple of pails.

“You might want to give them a little room. They might accidentally knock you over.”

I stepped away, and Savannah hung a couple of pails on the fence. The first group of horses trotted toward them. Savannah watched them, her pride evident.

“How many times do you have to feed them?”

“Twice a day, every day. But there’s more than just feeding. You’d be amazed at how clumsy they can be sometimes. We have the veterinarian on speed dial.”

I smiled. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“They are. They say owning a horse is like living with an anchor. Unless you have someone else help out, it’s tough to get away, even for a weekend.”

“Do your parents pitch in?”

“Sometimes. When I really need them. But my dad’s getting older, and there’s a big difference between taking care of one horse and taking care of seven.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

In the warm embrace of the night, I listened to the steady hum of cicadas, breathing in the peace of this refuge, trying to still my racing thoughts.

“This is just the kind of place I imagined you’d live,” I finally said.

“Me too,” she said. “But it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be. There’s always something that needs to be repaired. You can’t imagine how many leaks there were in the barn, and big stretches of the fence collapsed last winter. That’s what we worked on during the spring.”

Though I heard her use of “we” and assumed she was talking about her husband, I wasn’t ready to talk about him yet. Nor, it seemed, was she.

“But it is beautiful here, even if it’s a lot of work. On nights like this, I like to sit on the porch and just listen to the world. You hardly ever hear cars driving by, and it’s just so . . . peaceful. It helps to clear the mind, especially after a long day.”

As she spoke, I felt for the measure of her words, sensing her desire to keep our conversation on safe footing.

“I’ll bet.”

“I need to clean some hooves,” she announced. “You want to help?”

“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted.

“It’s easy,” she said. “I’ll show you.” She vanished into the barn and walked out carrying what looked to be a couple of small curved nails. She handed one to me. As the horses were eating, she moved toward one.

“All you have to do is grab near the hoof and tug while you tap the back of his leg here,” she said, demonstrating. The horse, occupied with his hay, obediently lifted his hoof. She propped the hoof between her legs. “Then, just dig out the dirt around the shoe. That’s all there is to it.”

I moved toward the horse beside her and tried to replicate her actions, but nothing happened. The horse was both exceedingly large and stubborn. I tugged again at the foot and tapped in the right place, then tugged and tapped some more. The horse continued to eat, ignoring my efforts.

“He won’t lift his foot,” I complained.

She finished the hoof she was working on, then bent next to my horse. A tap and tug later, the hoof was in place between her legs. “Sure he will. He just knows you don’t know what you’re doing and that you’re uncomfortable around him. You have to be confident about this.” She let the hoof drop, and I took her place, trying again. The horse ignored me once more.

“Watch what I do,” she said carefully.

“I was watching,” I protested.

She repeated the drill; the horse lifted his foot. A moment later I mimicked her exactly, and the horse ignored me. Though I couldn’t claim to read the mind of a horse, I had the strange notion that this one was enjoying my travails. Frustrated, I tapped and tugged relentlessly until finally, as if by magic, the horse’s foot lifted. Despite the minimal nature of my accomplishment, I felt a surge of pride. For the first time since I’d arrived, Savannah laughed.