Chapter 3: Taken-1
1684 Words
Chapter 3: Taken
May brought an early summer and we were able to say goodbye to the long drab spring. The warm breezes and sunshine were definitely welcome. I spent more time at Hawthorn Ridge, the barn which served as Andy’s office for his veterinarian practice and where I kept Snazzy, the horse Andy had gotten me for my birthday a year ago. We were getting ready for the upcoming show season. Andy was busy with spring shots, drawing blood for Coggin’s tests for Equine Infectious Anemia (a requirement for all show horses), and the regular bumps and bruises of spring. He returned one Saturday afternoon to the barn visibly shaken.
“What’s going on?” I asked as he got out of the truck.
I was sitting on Snaz, having just come in from the outdoor arena and a long workout.
He looked around. “I’ll tell you on the way home.”
I cooled out Snazzy, groomed him and put him out in one of the paddocks while Andy did the billing updates in the office. We met in the parking area, chatted for a few minutes with some of the barn folk and then got in the truck.
As I drove, Andy sat with his head in his hands. I waited for him to decide when to talk about whatever was bothering him.
Finally he took a deep breath, leaned back against the headrest and said, “s**t!”
“Well, that sums it up all right,” I said, trying to lighten him up.
“Mrs. Ferguson.”
“What about Mrs. Ferguson?”
“She wants me.”
“To take care of her horses? You already have that account don’t you?”
“Yes, no, s**t,” he said again.
“Okay, let me hear it from the beginning.”
“Yes, I have or had her account—but it’s not about that. When I said she wants me, I mean she wants me!”
“Owwwh.”
“What am I gonna do?” Andy sat up and looked at me.
“Well,” I was slightly amused at this point, “do you want her?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course I don’t!”
“Just asking,” I chuckled.
“David, this is serious.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the smile from my face. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was answering a farm call at her place. She was waiting in the barn with a horse she said was lame. I asked her to trot it around the arena for me. I couldn’t see anything wrong with the way the gelding went and told her so. She said it had been limping this morning. I told her again that I saw nothing wrong with it now. She put the horse away. Then she asked me to come in and have an iced tea since it was such a hot day. I should’ve known something was up but, stupid me, I went in. She poured the iced tea and excused herself. When she came back, man, I couldn’t believe it, she was in a teddy.”
I lost it again.
“David!”
“I’m sorry, Andy. What did you do?”
“I stood up, knocked over the chair and got out of there as fast as I could.”
I couldn’t hold back and laughed out loud.
“Oh, so you think this is funny?”
“Andy, I’m sorry,” I said again. “I just think you’re taking it too seriously.”
“Well, maybe I am, but what am I gonna do?”
“Just forget it. She probably got the message.”
Andy took a deep breath, “Maybe you’re right. I hope you’re right.” He leaned back against his seat once more and closed his eyes.
When we got into the house, the flasher on the phone indicated a voicemail. I picked up the phone to see who it was. As I listened I felt a combination of amusement and concern. It was Mrs. Ferguson.
“It’s from your girlfriend,” I quipped.
“What!” Andy’s head snapped up from sorting the mail.
At that same moment Brad walked in. “Dad has a girlfriend?”
“No, I don’t,” Andy said indignantly. “What the f**k does she want now?”
“Andy, please, language—not in front of the children.” I was trying not to laugh. “Seems that gelding you looked at this afternoon is having trouble again and she would be obliged if you would come back out and see if you can pinpoint the problem this time.”
“She’s the one with the problem.”
“What’s this all about?” Brad looked completely lost.
I briefly filled the boy in on Andy’s current crisis.
“Why don’t you just tell her you’re taken?”
“Duh! Why didn’t I think of that,” Andy said a bit sarcastically. “Maybe it was because I’m taken by a man, ya think?”
“What difference does that make?” Brad rejoined. “Taken is taken.” With that, he walked out of the kitchen with his snack.
“Boy’s got a point,” I said.
“Oh, all right. I’ll go back and if she pulls one of her vamp charades, I’ll just tell her I’m a flaming queen and be done with it.”
When Andy returned later that evening, I was sitting in the family room with the dogs, reading a book. “Was she properly shocked?”
He walked into the kitchen and hung his hat on one of the hooks inside the door without answering. I followed him. He took a Pepsi out of the refrigerator, popped the top and turned to me. “Seems I’m the way I am because I’ve never been with a real woman. She figures she’s just the real woman to cure me.” He took a big swig of the pop. “Any other suggestions?”
* * * *
Spring eased into full summer. Show season took up a lot of our time. Andy’s vet calls took up the rest of his. Brad was busy with a part-time job at Mickey D’s and football conditioning. This would be his senior year, when the college scouts were paying attention to the guys who might be good prospects for their programs the following season.
One rainy evening in June, I heard Andy return from a late emergency call and step into the shower. As I lay listening to the rain on the roof, I rolled onto my back and began stroking myself in anticipation of his coming to bed.
At last Andy came into the room, switched on the bedside lamp and sat down to finish toweling his hair. I moved over next to him and curved my body around his. He took in a deep breath as I ran my hand up his side, caressed his n****e and nuzzled his leg. The warm summer rain was a perfect aphrodisiac. He lay down facing me and we softly caressed one another, enjoying each other’s features and form to the fullest. There was no rush, no flashing lights, no sirens, just the quiet, peaceful sense of arousal that says so well, ‘I love you.’
Andy retrieved the KY from the bed stand. I rolled on my side and he gently massaged me until I was open and ready. The gentle rhythm of our union brought us both to climax. We lay there, joined bodily and spiritually as we fell asleep.
* * * *
The next morning the alarm went off, jarring us both awake. The rain had ended and there was that sense of clean freshness in the air. The sun was already up.
As we showered, shaved and dressed we talked.
“You gonna be able to make the show this weekend?” I asked Andy.
“Ubetchim. Barring emergencies of course.”
“Have you had any more Ferguson emergencies?” He hadn’t mentioned the lady, if you could call her that, for a couple of days. After the initial incident it seemed Mrs. Ferguson had a crisis about every other day that required Andy’s presence, most of them in the evening.
Andy stopped in mid-stroke of his razor. “Come to think of it, no. Do you think we dare hope the old gal has decided I’m a lost cause?”
“If she has, then she doesn’t see what I saw on that icy night in December four years ago.”
“Four years ago on that icy night, I was a homeless bum, living under the freeway bridge. If she had seen me then, she sure would of thought me a lost cause.”
I walked up behind him and pressed myself against him. He sighed contentedly, both from the love I was expressing to him in word and action and, I surmised, from the thought that he might be free of Mrs. Ferguson’s designs. He turned around and kissed me, leaving my face full of shaving cream.
* * * *
Sunday show time came and we arrived at the fairgrounds early as usual. I like getting there early enough to get a good spot for the trailer and to be ready to show without a frantic last minute rush. Brad had come to help us and we were busy getting things set up for the day. We knew most of the folks who showed on this circuit, so we were immediately aware when a trailer we didn’t recognize drove in. It pulled by and parked near us. Andy just about fell backward into the muck bucket when the driver stepped out of the truck. It was Mrs. Ferguson.
Actually, Mrs. Ferguson flounced out of the driver’s seat. That’s the only word to describe it. She looked like Dale Evans from an old Roy Rogers movie. Her skirt was mid-calf with fringe. She wore a vest decorated with silver stars over her blouse and her hat hung on her back, held by a bolo cord around her neck. I expected a chorus of “Happy Trails” at any moment.
“Yoo-hoo, Andy!” She waved.
Andy sort of nodded his hand in her direction.
She didn’t come over to our trailer but walked around the back of hers and, with the help of a young man who had arrived from the other side, proceeded to unload a rather nice-looking young horse.
“That’s her new prospect,” Andy said.
“Who, the hunk or the horse?” I quipped. The young man was quite a nice specimen in many ways: tall, wavy hair, nice smile.
“Who’s the guy?” asked Brad, returning with two buckets full of water for Snazzy.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Never saw him before. Could you turn in my class registrations at the secretary’s stand?”
“Sure,” he replied, taking the cards from me and walking off.
We continued with our preparations for the show. A few minutes later Brad returned. “Well, here’s the scoop,” he said with a hint of excitement in his voice. “His name is Ted. He’s Mrs. Ferguson’s rider. Mrs. F. isn’t going to show the horse herself; Ted is. He usually shows with the Class A Arabian circuit. He’s eighteen and lives in Stockbridge, halfway between here and Lansing.”
He uttered the whole story in one breath and smiled as he finished.
“Well, Brad, you certainly didn’t waste any time investigating the guy,” Andy commented with a wink.
Brad blushed and looked very uncomfortable, as if Andy had discovered a secret.
“Well, I, um, well, the girls in line at the secretary’s booth were talking about him when I went to turn in your registration cards, that’s all.”
I filed this reaction away for scrutiny later.
- Writer
