The Heart of Elvis, Robynn Gabel [romantic books to read txt] 📗

“You want to do what?” I stared at my husband over my cup of coffee. 

“Well, we don’t have much to do today.  I thought we could go look at that horse you were talking about last week,” Darrell said, smiling like it was the best idea ever.

Taking a slow sip, I wondered who had actually received the concussion--him or me. I’d just gotten out of the hospital from having the first horse I’d ever owned almost kill me, and looking at another horse was the last thing on my mind.

Two hours later, there I was in dust-filled air heavy with the musty-acrid odor of horses.  Tony, the owner of the ugliest horse I’d ever seen, had just finished riding him bareback. He ducked under the horse’s neck, petting him all over to prove the little equine was “bomb proof.”  I decided that Tony was definitely in on my husband’s plot, but I didn’t want to look at the chunky gelding. Compared to my sleek, sorrel mare, he was broad chested, knobby kneed and an odd combination of colors.  As far as I was concerned, he was like any other horse with the standard issue of four legs, head, mane and tail.

“Now, the reason I’m selling him is he can be slow. He’s the horse I let people ride when they come to visit, and he’s only five. He would be perfect for you--nice and easy. I have to tell you: he doesn’t back up and can be pretty heavy on the bit. He’s not ever going to be a show horse because he can’t fox-trot. He likes the pace too much. The only thing I don’t like about him is he can be stubborn. I’ve had to ride him with spurs sometimes to get him going. But unlike that ornery mare you got, he’s just a good ole boy,” Tony announced with pride.

He left me with his wife in the corral while he showed Darrell his other horses.  I headed for the gate, trying to figure out how to politely tell his wife I wasn’t interested. I heard the soft plop of the horse’s hooves as he walked up behind me. His breath fanned my neck, and I froze, waiting for a bite or a shove, as my mare was prone to do. Instead, I felt him gently drop his head over my shoulder and pull me back against his chest in a semblance of a horse hug. He snuffled at my pockets, looking for goodies.

I truly didn’t want to own a horse again, but what can I say?  I changed my opinion about who the lunatic was.  I wrote the check out on the spot, and to this day, I don’t know what I paid for the little Missouri Fox Trotter called Jake’s Elvis J, who had the nickname of Elvis.  

I noticed that as I signed Elvis’s registration papers, Cindy, Tony’s wife, shifted uncomfortably. With a sad look in her eyes, she told me he’d been a therapy horse, was sure-footed on the trail and loved working cows.

“You’re going to miss him, aren’t you?” I asked.

She nodded. “I’ve enjoyed riding him, and I can trust him. He can be a little stubborn, as Tony says, but I just hope you’re happy with him.”

“He will have a great home; I promise,” I said solemnly.

We were in-between horse trailers at the time, so I had to leave Elvis behind for a couple days. I drug my friends down to see him. Marilyn wasn’t impressed at all with his looks and wondered about his big knees. Peg, my riding instructor, preferred Quarter Horses. She thought his stocky build made him look a little like the breed she liked. But I could see in their eyes the same impression I had when I’d first seen him.

The first day home, I led him around to show him his new home. He followed behind me, checking things out. Unlike the mare I had before him, Elvis acted like he wanted to be with me. Sniffing my hands, my face and nickering when I would come out of the house.  Elvis had picked me to be his owner, of that I had no doubt.

In buying my first horse, the mare, I made all the mistakes a city girl would. I had picked flashy, fiery and beautiful over calm-minded. The mare was trained and knowledgeable, and more than I could handle. She’d been frustrated by my lack of skill.  Before I was bucked off and kicked by her, I had wanted to become a horseman.

That meant having enough experience to ride gracefully and communicate smoothly. The only hitch to this was that Elvis spoke horse--I spoke human. I would have to learn a new language, learn how to ride, and we would have to learn together how to compromise. 

In the early morning light, I hefted the saddle up over Elvis’s back, the smell of the new leather wafting in the air. Pulling the stiff cinch leather through the ring, I began to tighten it, and he sucked in air like a blowfish.  I didn’t think anything of this because I was your classic dude rider. Merriam-Webster defines a “dude” as a city dweller unfamiliar with life on the range.  In Wyoming a dude rider is considered someone unfamiliar with the way of horses. I was about to learn my first “dude” lesson.

 A couple of friends had invited me to ride out in the high desert. That’s what they called the rolling hills, shallow arroyos, cactus and sagebrush in Wyoming. There would also be a wide assortment of wildlife interspersed with cows. 

I was nervous about riding with my friends. Would Elvis do as I asked? Could I ride well enough that they wouldn’t think I was a beginner? I felt woefully unprepared.

My friends were already saddled and waiting for me. Marilyn was sitting astride a well-proportioned Missouri Fox Trotter mare named Candy. Sally was on an elegant Arabian called Buddy. I so badly wanted to impress them with my new horse.

As I went to mount up, the saddle slipped sideways and I ended up on my butt on the ground. Elvis turned around and looked at me. Both women immediately asked if I was okay. I knew I was very red because I suddenly felt like I was in the pits of Hell.  I made a mental note to my dude-self: always check to make sure the cinch is secure before putting weight in the stirrup, and remember Elvis likes to suck in air so I can’t get the cinch tight.

I swung a leg over and sat proudly on the new saddle I’d just bought. It had ornate tooling on the leather but was shabbily made. After all, Elvis had to have something that looked good on him. The new leather squeaked and creaked in joyous abandon, but after a while, the noise began to grate on my nerves. Being on a budget, I had bought the cheapest tack I could, but Elvis didn’t seem to mind.

“You know, if you put some cornstarch where the leather rubs, it won’t squeak. You need to put your heels down,” Sally informed me.

Well, so much for impressing anyone. I pulled back on the reins, which applied pressure to the bit in Elvis’s mouth. He proved he had no idea what that bar in his mouth had to do with stopping. He kept right on going . . . until I practically had to put my foot on the horn to pull hard enough to stop him. I could see he needed some practice on the human language of “Whoa.” I could turn him, but that was the extent of his understanding.

The wide open expanse of prairie dotted with sagebrush stretched endlessly in front of us. The wind whispered encouragement for all to run free.  Sally decided to do just that and let her Arabian out at a gallop. I suddenly had a real good sense of what a jockey on a racehorse felt like. Without warning, Elvis sprinted in pursuit of the galloping horse in front of us. It seemed that God had played a trick on Elvis. He’d given him a Fox Trotter’s body but a thoroughbred’s heart.  I stayed on only because I could “monkey clutch” really well. (Wrapping one’s legs around the horse and holding onto the saddle horn for dear life.)

Monkey clutching like crazy as he ran away with me, I leaned forward, wrapping an arm around the horn. I lost the stirrups and didn’t know where the reins went. As I watched the sagebrush speed by under us, I contemplated bailing because by now I had lost my center of gravity and was bouncing all over the saddle.

As I started to go limp and fall off, he felt the change. He thought his job was to keep the rider on his back, so he’d learned to adjust to keep him or her there.  He slowed, shifting to help keep me with him. That’s when I found the reins and started slowly applying a one-rein stop, the equivalent of an emergency brake.  As we circled down, I was pleased I was back in the center of the saddle. Not so pleased that both of my friends were looking at me with amazement in their eyes. This was probably because I still sat on top of the horse.

I was now beyond embarrassed. Definitely wasn’t the sitting-tall-and-looking-cool ride that I had wanted. Turning around to head back to the trailer, I experienced another one of Elvis’s quirks. Walking quietly behind the other horses wasn’t going to happen. He apparently thought he needed to be in front of everyone. He ignored my pull on the reins once again and ran up behind Marilyn’s mare. The rut we were riding in was narrow, so he shouldered them, almost knocking both rider and mare over. The mare froze, clamping down her tail and tucking her butt under her.  Since Elvis couldn’t stop his forward motion, his chest and leg ended up on top of the mare’s rear end. Marilyn’s eyes grew large as she glanced over her shoulder to see Elvis riding along behind her. 

I got a stern lecture from Marilyn about riding etiquette (as I should have) and a show of pinned ears and a tail swish from her offended mare. When the trailer came into view, there was no stopping Elvis in his gallop to get to it. I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t have to worry about being embarrassed ever again while riding with these two ladies because I was positive they weren’t going to be inviting me out to ride any time soon.

I was disappointed and frustrated. Where was the nice, quiet horse who’d given me a horse hug? How was I supposed to get this horse to understand what I needed? As I pulled off the saddle, Elvis looked around at me, his liquid-brown eyes hopeful. “Nope, not going to let you suck up,” I said with a stern shake of my finger. Stepping in front