The Sureness of Horses Ending–Chapters 35, 36, and 37 and Postscript
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One Saturday, when I brought Eva back to Diana’s, she and I talked in her kitchen. “I’m hoping you’ll stick around for Christmas,” I said. “Amelia’s coming out. She wants to discuss ideas about what to do after graduation.”
“I haven’t made plans yet.” Diana was dipping pieces of chicken in flour and placing them in a casserole dish. “By the way, I hear you went out with the hounds on Thanksgiving.”
“Yes, I knew you’d be away, so I called Jolene, who encouraged me to ride Artemis. When I showed an interest, she had Jack invite me. We went out on that big ranch down by Gilroy. It was good to see the old gang. I like them.” I sat at the counter; she was next to the stove. I resisted the urge to move closer to her. “There were only a handful of riders, plus the huntsman and a whip, and Jack led us. We got a few views. I rode with Cliff, often at a full canter—I barely stayed on.”
“I’m glad you got out.”
“Thanks. But now, about Christmas, do you think Amelia and Beth might hit it off? I thought it might help Beth to talk with someone who’s made it through.”
She took a while before answering. “My parents want me in Dallas, but maybe this is the year to stay in California. It would be my first Christmas away from home.”
“Think about it,” I said. “It would be good for Eva to stay here, too.”
“Possibly,” she said, nodding. ”Maybe that will work.”
Since I never heard otherwise from Diana, I assumed I would be as alone as the previous year. I decided to do the same things I’d done the year before—attend my old church on Christmas Eve, on to San Francisco for breakfast the next morning, and then horses.
Diana called four days before Christmas and threw my plans up in the air. She had decided to stay home for Christmas after all.
“Great. Will it still work for me to take Eva horseback riding in Half Moon Bay on Christmas Day?”
“Sure,” she said. “Perhaps we could go to church together Christmas Eve.”
“That would be great. Can I pick you up?” I asked.
“Um, no, I’ll be coming right from a party. I’ll have to meet you there. In fact, maybe you can hold a place for me in that line by the side door?”
“Sure. Can we do something after?”
“Sorry, but one of Beth’s friends is having a party and her mom asked me to help, so I have to get right back.”
I had to concentrate, fighting off an image of Jorge as he held Marita in the garage. Focus. Be with Diana here. “So we’ll meet up there and only see each other in line and the pew? I had a memorable Christmas last year and wanted to do all the same things, including my church.”
“Yes, of course.” She sounded contrite. “When I decided to stay in California, I accepted too many invitations before I’d sorted things out.”
I was conflicted, but I said, “We’d hardly see each other. I’d better stick with my own churcth then, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” she said softly. “Can I show you out?”
“No, Diana. Thanks. I’m okay.”
I had a bad moment in the church service on Christmas Eve. The minister lamented about the children put to death as part of King Herod’s edict, calling them the first Christian martyrs. She had a knack for bringing the gospel alive, making these children’s deaths seem so real that I thought of Jorge and Marita. Would they ever leave me alone?
But my pastor cheered me up. Like last year, she had us all shout “Merry Christmas!” at the end of the service. She announced this from the back of the church so she could greet us all on our way out. When I saw her, I kidded her about it. “Not a very Presbyterian ending there,” I said lightheartedly. “Aren’t you supposed to end with ‘A King is Born’ or at least ‘Alleluia’?”
She laughed as I passed by, saying, “You sound like all the male teachers I had in seminary. How are you, Wade? You’ve looked so down all fall. We even tried to reach out to you once, but you didn’t respond. Good to see you smiling.”
The next morning I went to Union Square in San Francisco and again visited Sears Fine Foods for breakfast. I managed to snag the same window table across from the costumed doorman. I had found the fragment I’d written the year before about the stranger with the shopping cart and read it over, wondering whether it could be part of a longer poem. I thought of putting Jorge into it but couldn’t see how. I was starting to look past his death and think about his life, how difficult it had been—and short, of course—but with blessings as well. I’d never forgive myself for that night, but before then I’d been a pretty good friend to him. I immediately thought of the tired quip, “Except for that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”
On Christmas day I let Eva ride the trustworthy Appaloosa I’d ridden the year before, while I rode an ancient nag behind her, nose-to-tail all the way to the ocean. I kept a close watch on them, but she and the Appaloosa never faltered. She later said stepping into the ocean on a horse was the best part of her Christmas. It was a good afternoon for me, too. After I dropped Eva off, I realized that my mind hadn’t wandered to Jorge or Marita or the baseball bat since I’d picked her up.
Amelia came out three days later, on a cold, crisp Tuesday. When I picked her up at the airport, she lingered a bit as she hugged me and said, “It’s good to see you, Dad,” a sentiment I echoed.
After I left the parking garage and pulled into traffic, I asked, “So what’s up? Everything okay in school?”
“Bard’s great. I’m putting together a wall of thirty or forty photos for senior project. It’s a lot of work but fun.”
“You said you wanted to talk about something, and it’s not school. Let me guess. A guy?”
“Sort of. Listen, Dad, let’s save any talk about Jason until we get home. I’m sure I’ll end up telling you more than you want to know about him then.”
I filled the rest of the ride home with small talk, asking her one trivial question after another. Her answers were thoughtful, like when I asked her remembrance of Palo Alto High School and she went on about how she’d had to get used to heavy competition earlier than if she’d gone to most other schools, and how the suicide of guy in her AP History class had affected her sleep habits for months.
When we got home she took more time than I would have expected looking around the house. She didn’t say anything, but her expression seemed concerned. I wondered if she was worried about my clutter, which, as I saw it through her eyes, seemed pervasive. It’s so easy to leave an open book here, a bill there, when you live alone and know they’ll be undisturbed. After a while I made some tea and we sat in the living room. “So tell me about this guy,” I said.
“He’s a teaching assistant, you know, a ‘TA’. He’s helping me select and arrange my photos for my project.”
Was my daughter getting engaged? “So you two have news?” I ventured.
She took a sip of tea. “Well, not exactly. But listen, Dad, before we get into all that, let me say how tough it must be for you to lose your friends. Jorge and Marita, right? I’ve been thinking about them a lot. You said they’d moved nearby and I could tell you really cared for them.”
I gave her a sanitized version of what happened. Even expurgated, it was a hard tale to tell.
“That truly tragic,” she said. “We don’t expect things to get so close to the bone, do we?”
I took a deep breath and told her about the plans I’d made with Diana to go to the ranch the next day. “Your return flight is Thursday, right? That means tomorrow is the only day for you to meet Beth and Eva.”
Amelia nodded. “So, you and Diana are still dating—”
I interrupted. “Not the way we were, no. But I want to hear all about Jason.”
“He’s a nature artist, you know, using natural materials—leaves and trees and some find objects.”
“Nature artist? I don’t understand.”
“He’s intense about the environment and finds ways to integrate it into art. Except for that passion, he’s laid back. You’d like him, I think.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Hard to argue with what he wants to do. So you’ve been dating awhile?”
“I started seeing him before we went to Mexico, but I didn’t mention it because it was so new.”
“You’ve been with him nine months or so. Is he good to you?”
“Until recently, very good. I thought I was in love. Then last month, that time I called you, I thought I was pregnant.”
My teacup moved in my saucer. Amelia had never admitted she was sexually active before. I’d assumed so, but this was a first. “So . . . this was no accident. You knew about birth control. Liz assured me she went through that with you.”
“Jason can be a little unconnected. I thought a child would ground him.”
“What?” I felt myself starting to sweat and knew I had to keep my cool. “Amelia, raising a child . . . even with committed parents—”
“Dad, you’re not listening. I assumed that we’d be committed parents.”
“You were planning to get married?”
She shook her head. “No, no. I mean when I told him . . . I mentioned marriage, as casually as I could, but he pushed for an abortion. I couldn’t abort a baby . . . I didn’t do anything. A week later, I had what the doctor called a spontaneous miscarriage.”
“Amelia, honey, I’m so sorry you went through that.” I started to say, “Jason sounds like an ass,” but instead I said, “At any rate, now you’ve broken up?” I hoped I was hiding the relief in my voice.
“Yes,” she said slowly as her eyes welled up.
“You want to tell me about it?”
“Maybe later, Dad?”
“Sure. We have time.”
“Let’s make dinner here.” She looked around the room. “I see lots that needs doing.”
Looking at the clutter and mounds of dirty laundry through Amelia’s eyes, I hopped into gear. We talked casually as we shopped for dinner and prepared pasta. After dinner, we took our wine glasses into the living room. I turned to her on the sofa and took her hands. “Amelia, honey, it’s probably best that you didn’t have that baby.”
She took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’ll get over Jason, I will. It’s taking longer than I thought.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. He must be an impressive guy to have attracted you in the first place.”
“He’s a charmer is what he is, cute in a shirt-ad way. Next time I’ll try to fall for an ugly guy.” She laughed. “I just have to move on. I’m thinking about a lot of things, Dad. The East Coast is fine, but I’m not sure I’m ready for graduate school, even if I got in. Yale has a great photography program, but I can’t imagine me there, can you? Back east . . . everything feels constrained somehow. The art scene here seems more exploratory. The word they seem to use is ‘vibrant,’ but it’s true.”
“I thought all the action was back east—that’s why you went to Bard.”
“Yes, but now I miss the energy here. I need some time before I go to grad school, if I go at all. Mom’s farm is pretty remote, and there are plenty of colleges here. I’m starting to think the Bay Area is the right place for me now.”
I hadn’t expected this. Once Amelia had gone back to Bard, I’d figured she’d stay out East, especially with Liz in Massachusetts. “Have you mentioned this to your mother? What did she say?”
“I talked to her right before I got on the plane in Boston. She was pretty cool about it. Mom has nothing but good things to say about you, by the way.”
“She’s been kind.” Before I got too excited about Amelia coming, I needed to know how serious she was. “This house is pretty small,” I said. “Are you sure you’d like to stay here? Your room seems like a little girl’s.”
“We’d have to change the rug and paint over the purple walls, but what’s that, an afternoon’s work?”
She’d at least thought that much through. “I’m flattered you’d want to live with me,” I said. “I’d love it.”
“Are you sure I won’t cramp your style with Diana?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. We aren’t as close as we were before. If it weren’t for Eva, I’m not sure Diana would see me at all.”
She soaked in this news. “Well, I’ll meet her tomorrow, right? But Dad, I’m pretty psyched about moving here.”
I raised my eyebrows and smiled. “I’m pleased.” I leaned toward her and she reached over and gave me a light hug. Even more than in the airport, it felt good having her with me again.
The sun was out on a brisk day when Diana and I met at Jasper Ridge Ranch the next morning. Between nervous introductions and tacking up the horses, the morning took forever to start, but eventually Eva rode Gray Cloud with Diana. She sat half on the front edge of the saddle and half in Diana’s lap. It looked uncomfortable for both of them, but they seemed to make do.
Once things were going well with Gray Cloud, Beth and Amelia shared a ride on Artemis, who ambled alongside Gray Cloud. I walked between the two horses so I could grab a bridle at any sign of a problem.
Diana, after whispering to me that she ‘really liked’ Amelai, surprised me by inviting us to lunch afterward. Rather than concentrating on problems, we relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company—one of those days that kept us going. Artemis and Gray Cloud, each docile and patient with the kids in their own way—Artemis more than Gray Cloud—were a big part of the morning’s success. I would always be grateful for Diana. Her taking Eva in was one of the most generous acts I’d ever experienced, and even before that I was in her debt for introducing me to horses.
I tried to come to grips with the fact that Amelia would be coming back and living with me, as soon as six months from now. I worked to see myself through her eyes.
That exercise, more than anything, helped bring me out of myself. As hard as it would be to move forward, I had no choice. Pulling my life back together, which had been a distant wish, became an immediate imperative. Kids can make you grow up yourself.
In January, I thought I saw Diana across the street as I was walking down Santa Cruz Avenue in Menlo Park. She was walking on the other side of the street, toward the bay. I turned around followed her down the block and broke into a run until I caught up. As I approached, the woman I was chasing, obviously concerned, turned and stared at me. She wasn’t Diana. I’d had similar things happen at the end of other relationships, so I thought I might have the start of a poem. I dropped into Ann’s Coffee Shop, found a booth, pulled out a notecard, and jotted down a few lines.
Perhaps one love is like another when it ends:
only the one who wanted it to last
understands what was at stake.
It felt good to start a poem that wasn’t about Jorge, Marita, or drinking. The poem didn’t feel exactly upbeat, but not morose either. Things picked up at work, too. When I called a prospect I’d worked closely with in the past, he invited me to meet with him in Sacramento the following week. “We thought we’d sold the theaters, but a deal fell through, so we’ve decided to refurbish them before we try again. We like your sound systems, Wade. If you can get us a good price, I think I can make it worth your trip.” Finally, a break!
That Wednesday I drove to Sacramento. After another pre-planned phone call to Ray, I came home with an order to re-wire three theaters now and possibly five more in the spring. The sale wouldn’t have meant much a year earlier, but now it might just have saved my job. I know it helped with Ray. It didn’t come any too early for me—at the next meeting, Ray said, “Wade Middleton will begin reporting directly to me.” I worked to hide how pleased I was that I wouldn’t report to Lydia, who grimaced as he announced the news.
I saw Eva every Saturday morning. If it wasn’t raining, we’d ride bikes. I discovered a safe way to get from Diana’s house to mine, but I wouldn’t let her ride alone yet. Often we’d ride to the park. Every week, by car if it was raining, we’d drop by my house and play with Keats. Feeding him on Saturday mornings became Eva’s job, and she took it seriously.
Some Saturdays, after we’d ridden bikes, I’d drive Eva up to Jasper Ridge Ranch. I began by putting her up on Artemis and walking alongside. As she advanced, I’d let her ride around in a ring without me holding on to the bridle. That went perfectly too. Artemis knew to be gentle—she never made one false move with Eva on her back.
One Friday I went to the poetry group I used to attend, Waverley Writers, for the first time in months. The poets met the growing hard times with agonized humor. I learned at the break that several of them had lost their jobs; it was good to get back to them and their wry sensibilities. When I came home that night, I wrote more stanzas of the poem I’d started.
At least once you must have lived in that lovesick daze
and glanced up to see someone who looked
almost exactly like the lover who had scorned you,
and didn’t you jump up from your table just to make sure,
and run full-tilt wherever this phantom took you,
driven by adrenaline, driven by hope?
And when, panting, you overtook this stranger,
what did you do then? Were you apologetic,
did you say, “Sorry, I mistook you . . .,”
I didn’t know where to go from there, so I printed out the first tercet along with these and went to bed with Keats at my feet. The poem needed a last push, something unexpected but inevitable. I thought of Diana’s image of God—the poem had to take wing. In the morning I woke up with an ending I felt might work:
or did you find the righteous power of the jilted lover
and set things straight right then and there,
describing the monstrous treatment you’d received,
you, who could have made it all work! Did you seize the moment
and tell the tale in that wonderful, out-of-control,
desperate way that we only get to act a few times
in real life, standing squarely at center stage for once,
stating, of all the people on this planet,
you are one of the handful driven by love?
Although I suspected others might see the poem as too self-referential, it felt honest to me. In college when I took a psychological test to determine what kind of work I was most suited for, I decided to be absolutely honest in every one of my answers, but somehow my answers tripped a wire saying I was lying. That’s how I feared this poem would be received.
I was invited to Eva’s birthday party the same way I was invited to Parent’s Night at her school—Eva asked me about it, and I dropped hints to Diana until she finally relented.
I stayed in the background at the party, enjoying the energy of seven-year-olds. I’d forgotten how much noise kids make. Eva seemed so relaxed that, if I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have had any idea what she’d been through. There was one minute when she got a distant look on her face, but for the rest of the party she played the perfectly happy birthday girl to a ‘t.’
After the kids went home and Beth and Eva went back to the bedrooms, Diana turned to me. “Thanks for being so great with Eva,” she said cheerily. She invited me into the room overlooking Stanford. “It’s obvious that you’re getting through things. You’ve changed.”
“I don’t know about that.” Hoover Tower rose over the center of campus. I smiled as I noticed how phallic it appeared and remembered students calling it ‘Hoover’s last erection.’ “I just keep doing what needs to be done.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’re tougher than I thought, Wade Middleton, and more gentle. We didn’t quite make it to opening hunt, but I’d like for you to accompany me to closing hunt. It’s only three weeks away.”
It confused me that she seemed nervous as she asked, looking at me and then looking away. I wanted to put her at ease. “Sure,” I said. “I’d forgotten hunt season ends so early.”
She took a deep breath. “That’s part of the tradition. Foxes breed in late winter. It wouldn’t be sporting to chase a pregnant fox. November to May.”
“Of course I want to go with you,” I assured her. Driving home, I wondered if I’d accepted too quickly. But a guy who likes to think of himself as driven by love is more likely than not to wear his heart right where I wore mine, in the center of his sleeve.
On the morning of closing hunt, long before the first sign of the sun, Diana met me at the door in her jodhpurs and a starched white shirt. As we moved gear from all over her apartment into her elevator, her fast walk and crisp demeanor put out a strong message: Don’t talk about anything personal. All the loving hours we’d spent here the previous year could have been a dream.
“I used to think that if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t ride,” she said, looking at me. “But you even went out on Thanksgiving all alone. I’m glad to see I was wrong.”
I tried to thaw the ice by making light of the last time we’d gone out with the hounds. “If we get on a boar,” I said, “I’ll dismount and kill it with my bare hands or have Artie stomp it to death. Whatever seems right at the time.”
She laughed as we headed down the elevator and out the door.
It felt strange to be in the passenger seat of her SUV again, to be doing the same things we’d done before after so much had changed. I felt more grateful to be there than I had before. Perhaps she shared the feeling, because, after we drove about an hour south, she said, “This is a pretty time of year. The hills are still green.”
The hunt went predictably: the hounds gave tongue a few times but never really got on a coyote, much less a boar. But my ride was not without incident. As we rode through one of the most remote parts of the ranch, Diana yelled over to me, “Your saddle’s leaning to one side. Put more weight into your downhill leg.” We were moving at a fast trot with the others in second field, working to catch up to first field. “You have to tighten that girth. Can you cinch it up while you ride or do we have to stop?”
“Let’s not fall behind—I’ll get it later,” I said.
We trotted down a narrow path cut into a steep hill. Diana yelled over, “Keep your weight level along here.”
Artemis picked along the slope confidently. Fearful of the precipice below, though, I put too much weight into my uphill leg and felt the saddle slip; then, after a few more steps I felt it slip again, further this time. I quickly reversed my lean, but it was too late. I was falling. I reached to grab a fistful of Artie’s mane but failed. She gave out a whimper, which scared me. Before I knew it, I was face-up on the ground, half under a still-moving horse. I held one hand as high as I could, trying to cling to the reins, but then let them go. I tried to roll away, but ended up directly underneath her.
Artie’s back left hoof came toward my chest like a sledgehammer. Her weight could kill me instantly. I instinctively moved my gloved hands toward her leg and wrapped them around her hoof and drew my breath in sharply for the blow.
The hoof landed on my chest, but . . . the blow never came. As soon as the hoof touched my jacket, I felt her leg rise in my hands. I quickly rolled over, trying to get out from under her without rolling down the precipice.
Diana dismounted. “Can you breathe?” she asked, dropping to her knees.
I touched my chest where the hoof had been and took a deep breath. “Yes, I don’t believe it, but I can.”
She prodded my shoulders and my chest, as thorough as a doctor. Then she put her arms around me. “Artie found a way to move her weight to her other hooves.”
I looked up at her, stunned. As I realized I wasn’t seriously hurt, I was almost giddy with relief, and . . . Diana was holding me.
“Look,” she said as Artemis nuzzled over toward us. The horse had circled back, her saddle hanging upside-down a few inches from her broad middle.
“Artemis, get back.” Diana said, shooing her.
I felt waves of adrenaline, prompting fight or flight, but I lay still. “I thought I was going to die.”
“You could have.” She touched my face. “Can you stand up?”
I rose to my feet on the steep slope and lightly shook my arms and legs. “I’m a little lightheaded. Let me stand here a minute, then I’ll be okay.” I heard surprise in my voice.
“Are you sure? I’ll help you mount up when you’re ready,” she said, repositioning Artie’s saddle and tightening her girth. “See that rock up there? When you feel steady enough, stand on it and I’ll bring her to you.”
After my breathing settled, I did as instructed. With my heart pounding and adrenaline pumping I wasn’t exactly steady, but I was mounted.
Diana got up on Gray Cloud and looked toward where the others had cantered off. She took a deep breath. “Let’s head back in. If we go this way, I’m fairly sure there’s a gate.” She led Artie and me at a careful walk while my pulse slowed.
We met the others on the trail; the field was hacking back. Only when I rejoined the group and dropped behind them did I think of Jorge and Marita. This mishap had cleared them from my mind for the first time in weeks. The colors on the trail looked brighter and the air smelled cleaner. The word joy popped into my head.
Safely at the trailer, I took off my black hunting jacket and examined the hoof print. The mark was so clear you could see a few nail holes outlined in dirt against the black of the jacket.
I quietly told the others what had happened and hung my jacket on the tack door on the trailer.
When the master came by and examined the hoof print, he shook his head. “Wow, hard to believe. That was close.”
Cliff offered an explanation. “She relaxed her fetlock.”
Diana came from the other side of the trailer nodding in agreement.
“Here,” said Cliff, running his hand down Artemis’s leg. He pointed out where her hoof jutted forward from the rest of the leg, far below her knee. “This is the fetlock. Horses can relax it in a split second. It takes all weight—a hundred percent—off the hoof.”
“Still, it’s a miracle,” Diana said.
“Good horses don’t like to step on humans,” Cliff said. “I once saw a polo pony throw its body around in the middle of a jump and take a bad spill rather than step on its rider.”
I ran my hand along Artie’s leg. I couldn’t tell if I was still light-headed from the shock of the accident or from Diana’s tenderness. “What happened makes me love this horse more than ever.”
Diana drove home. We started talking right away. Diana became positively chatty, as if she’d been storing up things to say. She talked about Eva’s school and Beth’s plans for the summer and how Robbie was spending more and more time with his dad. She went on about the responsibilities of a godparent and how I was doing well and she wanted to help me do even better. I had the feeling she was avoiding some subject but I couldn’t figure out what.
When we neared the freeway exit to the Jasper Ridge barn, Diana finally said, “I was talking to Jolene the other day. They’re starting a series of dancing lessons on Friday nights at her club. Ballroom, you know, swoops and droops. Maybe we could go together.” She hopped out of the car as she said it.
We unloaded the horses and took them to the wash rack that had hot water as well as cold. The first thing I did was to adjust the temperature. That done, I soaped her down carefully with a warm-water sponge, then ran the hose along her back to rinse the soap away. I streamed the water from angles that would clean every square inch of her. Then, using a sweat scraper, I dried her flanks off as best I could. I took a towel to her face, taking care to make sure she was clean behind the ears, where sweat builds up from the bridle.
Diana had mixed a bran mash, the traditional reward meal for horses after a hunt. I hosed lukewarm water over the bran, waiting until it became the consistency of oatmeal. As I led her to the barn, I worked to keep her away from the bucket.
Once she was in her stall, though, I held the bucket up to her mouth so she didn’t have to lean down as she ate. I knew she couldn’t connect my care with the fact that she’d saved my life, so at some level my action made no sense. But I was learning how important it was to express thankfulness. I held the bucket up to her until she’d eaten every mouthful, as much for myself as for her.
Diana came over.
“Swoops and droops, huh?” I asked. “What else would you like?”
She smiled over at me as I rinsed out the feed bucket. “You may find my demands are endless.”
₪ ₪ ₪
A couple of years later, as Eva was starting to take jumping lessons from Edward, I wrote her a letter and left it on her night stand:
Now that you’re thinking about jumping, I want to tell you the little I’ve learned. A rider on horseback can’t jump a fence, only the horse can do that. If you try to help the horse by raising your body, you’ll throw your horse off.
Let the horse know what’s expected. Set the pace and direct the horse to the fence. She has to know she’s taking the jump—period. Sink as low into the stirrups as possible—stretch your Achilles. If you grip her with your legs like a clothespin you’ll pivot into place automatically and feel part of her as you clear the fence. You won’t think about your mother or father or anything else.
At the top of the jump look in the direction you want the horse to go next. Step into that stirrup and open the reins that way.
Once a Master told me that to jump in the hunt I’d have to learn to throw my heart over the fence. It didn’t mean anything when he said it, but over time I realize he understood what’s required. That’s what you have to do, Eva. As you approach the fence you must throw your heart clear to the other side. When she jumps, you’ll be secure, safely dependent on the sureness of horses.