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It’s exactly what I expect, and nothing like it.
There are familiar elements. It smells like hay and horses and liniment and pine and leather, same as every other barn I’ve been inside. But there’s no dust or manure or even a stray shaving.
The black rubber mats that run down the center of the aisle look like they’ve been freshly vacuumed. Unlike the worn, chewed walls that enclose our horses, every horse here has a stall that’s constructed from a mixture of black iron and mahogany wood.
The entrance to each stall reaches about four feet high, allowing the horse to stick its head out into the aisle. On either side of the door, wrought iron slopes up gradually, creating a “U” shape that frames the front of each stall. To the right of each door hangs a leather halter and a golden nameplate.
The only sound aside from our footfalls on the rubber is the quiet munching of hay. A few horses duck their heads out of their stalls, but most of them just continue eating their dinner, unbothered by our visit.
The stalls seem to stretch endlessly, even though I know they must end eventually. Occasionally, I think I feel Caleb’s eyes on me, but every time I glance over he’s focused on the barn.
Finally, the stalls stop, transitioning into a grooming and bathing area filled with fancy equipment and racks of brushes. I halt but Caleb keeps walking, heading toward a massive sliding door just past a shelf filled with shampoo and bug spray.
“There’smore?” I ask. I haven’t been counting, but we’ve already passed dozens of stalls.
“I thought you’d want to see the stallions.” Caleb slides the wooden door open, exposing a cement hallway that veers abruptly to the left. As we walk down the hall, snorts and stamps sound.
The stalls down here are bigger, allowing the massive horses more space to pace. Eight heads pop out into the aisle, pricked ears and proud profiles appearing left and right.
A huge, coal black stallion whinnies, straightening the elegant slope of his neck as he shakes his thick mane. Caleb approaches the horse and begins stroking the skinny white blaze that runs down the center of its wide face.
I take a step toward the stall, trying to see the horse’s name plate. The stallion snorts, eyeing me suspiciously. There’s a wild savagery and a barely-restrained power that’s captivating to witness.
“This is Grand Slam.”
“Last year’s Landry Cup winner.”
“Yeah.” Caleb’s hand moves lower, stroking the rippling muscles of Grand Slam’s neck. “He’s mine now, technically.”
“Your grandfather…”
“Yeah.”
“You named him?”
“It was between Grand Slam or Babe Ruth,” Caleb replies.
I smile. “Of course.” I study the majestic animal. He must be close to seventeen hands. “It suits him. He’s handsome.”
“He’s handsome, but I’m just hot? That’s cold, Matthews,” Caleb teases.
I roll my eyes. “I knew you were going to find some way to bring that up again,” I mutter, moving on to the next stall.
This stallion’s not as skittish as Grand Slam was, and he lets me stroke his neck for a couple of minutes before I turn back around and we head back into the main section of the barn.
“Thanks,” I tell him, about halfway down the aisle.
“For what?”
“For showing me around.”
“You’re big into horses, huh?”
I glance over at him, eyebrows raised. “Youareaware we live in Horsetown, USA, right?”
“Yeah. But you can live somewhere and not subscribe to everything it stands for,” Caleb responds. My steps slow as his words register. I’m not sure we’re still talking about horses.
“Well, you didn’t grow up here,” I remind him. “It’s different when it’s all you’ve ever known.”
