Black and Blue Ivy

Goldenrod

The sting of frigid air against my cheeks woke me from the stupor of the oppressive house, which despite its vastness, seemed to compress my breath at every turn. The day was cold, but clear. Our footsteps, Bentley's confident and mine struggling to keep up, crushed the frost-covered lawn. The red barn gleamed happily before us, and the horses, anticipating our arrival, snorted vaporous breaths and shook their flanks in the frigid air.

A gelding and a mare, wearing plaid wool blankets, trotted up to us as we approached the paddock. I held back shyly as Bentley reached bent down to pick from a small pile of hay at our feet. I watched as he flattened his hand and held it out for the gelding to eat. "Good boy," he said, patting the horse's forelock with his other hand.

"He seems to like you," I said.

"He'd better." Bentley tilted his face close to the horse's head and nuzzled against it. "He's been mine since he was a foal. This is Barrington."

I giggled. His gaze flashed, but there was amusement there. "Don't blame me. Mother named him."

Figures, I thought. Gardenia seemed to gravitate toward pretentiousness. I didn't say it, but Bentley and Barrington sounded like twin princes from one of those regency romance books Morningstar kept in stacks next to the bathtub in our old Kensington apartment. I thought of that place with its patches of mold clinging to the ceiling and shuddered.

"Come on, Ivy. He won't bite."

Barrington's ears fluttered back and his black eyes rolled as I stretched my hand forward.

"Here." Bentley picked up my hand and trickled some hay into it. "A little bribe never hurt." Barrington's rubbery lips tickled my palm as he lapped up the hay.

Growing in confidence, I stepped up on the lowest rail of the fence and leaned toward the mare who was standing back shyly. "What's her name?"

"That's Goldenrod," he said. He whistled and the mare with the yellow mane trotted toward us with a snort.

"That's a good name for her," I said.

"I'm glad you think so." Bentley's shoulder pressed against mine. "I named her. Come on, you." He lifted me under my arms and set me down with a grunt. "Hey, you're gaining weight."

I punched his upper arm playfully. "That's a hell of a thing to say."

He laughed and gave my arm a squeeze as he led me to the barn. "I meant it as a compliment, Ivy. I hate to say it, but you didn't look so good when you first came here. I was worried."

The seriousness of his tone slowed my pace. "Were you really?"

"Yes," he said, biting his lower lip. "I was worried that hatchet job on your head would never grow out." He laughed and tousled my hair, messing up thoroughly what I had taken great pains with my gel and comb to look presentable.

"Ass!" I said, getting in another good punch while he feigned great injury and ran ahead toward the barn.

He slid open the bar door and I followed him inside. Our laughter echoed through the open space, bouncing off the pitched ceiling and hay loft. The barn was warmer than the outdoors, but not much. I huffed on my fingers to warm them.

"Wow! That horse is tall."

"He sure is. Eighteen hands."

"What do you mean 'hand'?"

"It's how you measure a horse's height. From hooves to withers. Like this." Bentley placed his hands in front of the brown-colored horse one on top of the other.

I realized there was a lot I didn't know about horses. "I wish I'd brought a notebook with me to write all this down."

"Oh, there are plenty of books in the library on horsemanship."