Danse reached up and patted the horse's gleaming neck.
"Any luck this time?"
The trainer smiled at the dark-haired young woman, his voice never rising above a
gentle, soothing tone as he rubbed the sweat from the filly's back.
"Of course not. This stupid nag-to-be is driving me nuts, she is. Just refuses to take the
bit. Yes, that's right sweetheart, we're talking about you," he crooned to the horse. It eyed
him suspiciously, then snorted and looked away. The older man snorted back and smiled
ruefully at Danse.
"And good afternoon to you Lady Dancer. I've already lost my hat and my temper once, so while you're here, best not mind what I say too much. What can I do for you?"
She grinned. The nickname was a private joke between them.
"Actually, I need to get in some practice. Got anything for me?"
He pursed his lips, hands moving steadily.
"Think I do. The three in the east pasture could use a trim, and if you're up to it, the
mare in number five needs new shoes."
"Thanks Mr. Frakes. My usual fee?"
His weathered features creased as he chuckled. Since she was only a student farrier, all
her work was free, in exchange for the opportunity to practice her chosen craft. And
despite his many attempts to give her something, she'd never taken more than a can of
soda when she was done.
Frakes put the bay filly in her stall, then began working with March on the lunge line,
putting the handsome grey gelding through his paces. When he'd worked the horse for a
while, and put him away, Frakes wandered over to the far side of the barn to see how
Danse was getting along. He leaned on the fence, watching as she held the foreleg of the
mare between her legs, hands working quickly with the large file. The rough, harsh sound
of the rasp continued for a few more strokes, then she measured the shoe against the hoof.
Freeing herself, Danse put the shoe in a portable kiln to heat, and straightened, brushing
dust from the thick leather apron she wore. Frakes watched with silent approval as the
young woman made adjustments to the shoe on a small anvil. The hammer rose and fell
in a staggered rhythm, the strike of metal on metal ringing high and clear. Another
heating in the kiln, and she burned the shallow impression on the hoof. Yellowish, foul-
smelling smoke wisped into the air, joined a moment later by the fast hiss of hot metal in
cold water. Danse, horseshoe nails gripped tight in her lips, intently fastened the
quenched shoe in place, then smoothed the hoof's edge with another rasp. A pat for the
mare, and she began putting away her tools, brushing a strand of hair from her brown,
tanned face.
Frakes walked over and picked up the horse's feet, examining Danse's work.
"Good job. When you graduating?"
Danse smiled.
"Thanks. Pretty soon now. I'll be a real farrier in a month or so. Finally be able to
charge for my work. Thanks for letting me do this Mr. Frakes, I really appreciate it. I'll
come by in a day or so and talk with you some more, but I've got class at the college
tonight."
"Oh? How's the painting coming?"
"It's okay. I learned my lesson though. No one else knows I do anything but paint.
Marta was just horrified when she found out I was going to be a farrier. I should have just
kept my mouth shut. She was always asking me what happened to my hands, just because
they're more callused than anyone else's. When I finally figured out what she meant and
told her, I thought she was going to faint. She said I was going to 'ruin' my hands. Keeps
trying to give me things to soften the skin up, and I keep telling her I need them as they
are. I worked hard for them!"
He nodded indulgently as Danse packed her things into the small car.
"When you getting a truck like normal people?"
She shut the door and laughed.
"Same time I start listening to country music!"
She turned up the radio enough for him to hear a song of the kind she preferred.
". . . they left before the sun came up that day.
They just drove off and left it all behind them,
but where were they going without ever knowing the way?
Anyone can see the road they walk on is paved in gold . . ."
The song and her voice faded as she drove off.
The brush lightly tapped over the canvas, giving the sun's kiss to the hills. Danse sat
with her back to the wall, smiling as the flow of hand and brush and eye relaxed her. The
painting was almost done, and she couldn't keep away a tiny thrill of pride.
"Ms. Black, what are you working on this evening?"
Danse looked up and sighed mentally, the smile waning. She knew what was coming.
It came, invariably, every time there was a critique of their projects. Silently, she leaned
back, allowing Dr. Landon to survey her canvas. Two horses splashed through a pond,
wind ruffling the grass around them. The horizon stretched away into hills beneath a
setting sun. Colors ranged across the sky, fiery and glowing, painted light glazing the
clouds. The as yet incomplete highlights on the foreground's waving grass were the only
thing left to be done, and Danse had been carefully mixing the paints for just the right
shade. It was a good painting. She knew it, and was very happy with how it had come
out. Dr. Landon pointed out a few flaws -- a brush-stroke too visible when it wasn't
supposed to be, a place where the colors didn't blend enough, small things that Danse had
missed. She nodded, mind racing ahead to how she could fix those mistakes. Dr. Landon
took another breath.
"You know, Ms. Black, that this is an excellent painting . . ."
Danse's jaw tightened as she waited for the but.
"But you should move away from landscapes. They're fine, but your real talent is
doing portraits. Just take a look at that one you completed! Honestly, it's much better than
these nature scenes you insist on rendering. You should try doing more people. It's in
portraits that your skill really shines . . ."
He went on, hoping to finally reach her. The girl was very talented, no denying, but
she stubbornly refused to paint what she was best at. Somehow, he had to show her that
she needed to change directions. She could do so much more if she just reached beyond
what she was comfortable doing. With some prodding, perhaps it would be clear that she
was capable of much more than she thought.
Danse's eyes narrowed, the lids coming down slightly over her brown eyes, which
sparked with irritation. Dr. Landon was a good teacher, and very knowledgeable. She
liked him, when he wasn't talking about this particular subject. He was also nearly as
stubborn as most people said she herself was. Danse couldn't remember how many times
she'd explained to him that she painted what she did because she enjoyed it. Her art meant
a lot to her -- she couldn't imagine not painting, just as she couldn't imagine not seeing.
Every improvement she made, every new thing she learned from him was a welcome
refining of her craft. The one portrait she'd done, of Mr. Frakes leaning on the fence, his
craggy, open face and gentle smile rendered with careful detail, was among her best
work. But she didn't think it was the pinnacle of her efforts, a point disputed by Dr.
Landon. The portrait had been spontaneous, a twitch. She'd tried starting a few others,
and found that she disliked it. So she'd gone back to painting what she loved, landscapes
and sunsets. Her painting was important, but it wasn't the beginning and end of her life.
She could turn and leave and not worry about looking back. If she sold some pieces, that
would be great, but if she sold none, that was fine too, as long as what she did was done
well. And that was why she was there, to learn to do it well.
" . . . if you are truly serious about your art, you should break out of what you
normally do . . ."
The good feeling vanished, the pride gone. Suddenly her painting was lessened, not
nearly as well done as it had seemed moments ago. Anger snarled and gathered into a
heavy knot at the loss. Aggravation grew inside, pushing against her chest. Danse was
tired of hearing it, and of repeating herself. She gave a sharp nod as her only reply, and
when Dr. Landon moved off, she set aside the painting and readied a new canvas. She
roughed in the outline, adding more detail as she picked up speed. Lips pressed tight,
unsmiling, she worked for the rest of the class, packing up the canvas and gathering her
paints to take home.
Danse set up the easel that evening, mixing her acrylics and positioning the lamps in
her corner of the living room, after scattering newspaper on the square of hardwood. She
sat down, and after a minute or two of glaring at the sketch, determinedly grasping her
brushes, she began.
Her family and the hours moved by, flowing around her, unnoticed and unremarked.
Her mother, a small, dark woman with shining black hair, watched, absorbed in her
daughter's actions. She'd never seen her paint like this before.
Danse was fighting with the canvas. Shoulders rigid, expression close to a scowl,
every stroke of the brush was a jab, a slap, a furious attack. The easel shivered. Brushes
swirled in water recklessly, strewing drops against the floor, muddy dregs of purpose. A
set expression, eyes shining bright with barely contained focus, Danse was working with
a concentration so forceful that no one dared say anything to distract her. The night
became next day before she took a deep breath and set her palette down, bone weary and
drained, as if she'd been working all day. The distasteful thing was done, and she was
finished.
Frakes struggled with the bay, pressing his thumb insistently behind her teeth. The
filly, tied to the stout wooden beam of the shed's porch, tried to twist her head away. Her
tricks were old ones to him, and he had no trouble keeping his hold. His fingers held the
metal bit against her clenched teeth, ready to slip it in at the slightest opening. The horse
stamped and fretted, her brown eyes hard and brittle, white-rimmed with irritation and
anger. He put more pressure on the smooth pink gum, coaxing her to open her mouth,
commanding her to let him slide the bit inside. Her black tail lashed as she fought, every
muscle tensed. He'd been fighting her too long, tried the gentle ways and the harsher
methods, and now here he was again.
Man and horse moved as they fought each other's will. Dust floated as the filly pawed
and kicked, and for the first time Frakes began to curse at the animal. His own teeth were
gritted, and he again stepped up the pressure inside her mouth. He glared into the
stubborn brown eye, his own showing icy determination. They stayed that way for a
minute, then with a final kick, the filly's ears flattened tight to her skull, and she parted
her jaws, bowing for only a second to the man's will. Frakes had the bit in and the bridle
over her head in a moment. The triumph he felt was quashed almost immediately, as the
bay screamed in fury, throwing all her considerable weight back and rearing. The wooden
support groaned, and the horse screamed defiance again, slamming backwards. Though
he was fast, Frakes couldn't get back that moment of control, and he had to fall back as
with a great creak and snap, the porch of the old shed came loose and collapsed.
He snatched for the lead rope, grabbing ahold and hurriedly slipping the bridle from
her head as the filly tried to break away, the one second of conformity all she would give.
Later, Frakes reluctantly fitted the hackamore over the horse's ears, and moved the
reins experimentally. To his surprise, the filly, ears pricked, obligingly turned her head,
responding to the urging press on the outside of her muzzle. Frakes was pleased. Using
the gentler, more suggestive hackamore, he started some easy lessons. The filly, content
with the bitless bridle, moved easily.
Danse had let the painting dry for a day, and packed it into her car before heading
over to Mr. Frakes' ranch. She had no intention of going back to her house that day, so
she wrapped it up carefully and stowed it securely in the back seat. After exercising some
of the horses, she sat and talked with the older man. The conversation wound all over,
aimless, until, as conversations do, it tripped over something important.
"I see you got a picture in your car. That for tonight?"
"Yeah. Last thing I'm turning in."
"It's all finished then? Can I take a look?"
Danse shrugged and rose, getting the canvas from her car and unwrapping it so Frakes
could see. Done all in shades of grey, with harsh brush-strokes, white lines and black
shadows, the man's face was stark, adamant. His stern expression was tempered only by
the soft treatment of his eyes, grey in the assumed half-light of the picture.
Frakes gazed at it for a while, then looked at Danse.
"Not exactly your usual style. Or your usual quality. Is it your teacher?"
The neutral tone didn't hint as to whether it surpassed her level of skill or was beneath
it, and she felt no curiosity. Danse nodded and lifted a shoulder negligently.
"I don't care anymore. I'll paint what I want at home. I always have."
He let her wrap up the portrait and put it away. When she rejoined him, they sat for a
while, not saying anything, watching the day slip past. Finally, he coughed, warming up
his throat.
"That filly is coming along just great. She's a smart one, a fast learner. Already
recognizes the commands for changing gaits. She'll make a darn good riding horse. Now
that she's gotten started, she's sweet as can be."
"You finally got her trained to the bit?"
He shook his head.
"Nope. Took her out by the old shed in the big pasture, tied her up to one of the
support beams. Thought it'd hold her fine while I tried again. Finally got it in, and she
pulled the whole damn shed down. Just refuses to take a bit. I gave in and used the
hackamore. Sure enough, she responded. Some horses are like that you know."
Danse nodded, gaze on the sunset. That would make a good picture. Be fun to paint too. Those reds'd be a challenge. . .
