Learning to Fall

Chapter 1

As if conjuring my dream, the earth shook. My throat closed, and I knew I should run, or duck, or roll—any one of the things I'd been taught since elementary school to do during an earthquake. But I stood rooted, watching the horses gallop up from the creek that bordered the redwood forest—their hooves striking the cracked ground as they flew, their tails raised high, their necks extended, their ears flattened against their heads, desperate to keep up with their herd mates. A cloud of dust rose above the ranch, choking me. I wiped at the grit in my eyes with the heel of my hand.

Then everything settled. The ground. The horses. The dust. The thunderous noise.

And even though I'd been born and raised in earthquake coun- try, and this was not unusual—typical even—from somewhere deep within me, like the tectonic plates colliding beneath the soles of my feet, something shifted and two opposing forces clashed. Courage and fear, logic and absurdity, certainty and fantasy—tearing at me from the inside.

I stood, balancing on the tenuous ground, my helplessness star- tling me, and I had a sudden urge to taste and smell every bit of our patch of earth. I wanted to touch all the horses, run my hand along the white fence, and pick a few blades of grass, just so the smell would linger on my fingers.

"Come on, Brynn. We don't have all day!" Dad held Jett, my jumper, by a leather lead shank. Pulling a cloth out, the one that always stayed tucked into the waist of his worn jeans, he wiped Jett's face, muttering under his breath. Probably cussing out Derek, our groom and my longtime best friend, for missing a spot.

I hurried over, my hand trembling as if the earth still shook. "Did you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

My pulse pounded in my ears. "The earthquake."

"Must've been a small one." Dad stood back, narrowing his eyes as he assessed Jett, then wiped a speck of dust off of Jett's chest. The restless herd snorted, their nostrils flaring, their hooves pawing at the dry ground, circling at the gate like they always do when they want to come in. 

"They must have. They galloped all the way up from the valley."

Dad glanced at the horses. "Nothing we can do about it now." He wiped at the sweat trickling down the back of his neck into the crease of his dusty collar. "Gimme fog over this damned heat any day."

I scanned the barn and house to make sure everything stood as it should. "Should we worry about a larger one?"

"Nah. It was probably nothing. Let's just get them loaded."

I hesitated, but grabbed Jett's lead shank. The task of trailering horses made my stomach clench. It was my least favorite thing in the world: large horses weren't meant to go into small boxes. But we'd owned Jett since he was a foal in utero and he would be fine. He was always fine. I led Jett up the rubber-matted ramp into the three-horse slant-load trailer.

"One of four more shows this season," Dad said.

"Yeah," I said. We were heading to one of the biggest competitions on the West Coast—the Queen Elizabeth II Cup at Spruce Meadows in Calgary. Dad stood behind me, ignoring the long whip that leaned against the trailer. Jett, having ridden in trailers hundreds of times, mostly traveling to shows for competitions, knew we were headed off to another; his tail up, nickering, excited to be loaded, as if to tell me his fearless spirit thirsted for victory. "Victory by Heart," I said Jett's show name aloud, rubbing the white star on his forehead with my thumb. White hairs mixed with black.