"Elizabeth Moon - Horse of Her Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

When I got home, I told Marcy about the horses. Like so many girls her age,
she thinks anything with four legs and a mane is wonderful. For years sheтАЩs been
saving her allowance and birthday money to buy her own horse and take lessons at
the stable up the road.
тАЬCould we go see them, Daddy?тАЭ I should have expected that. I looked at
Denise. Mothers have rights, IтАЩd learned, and besides we had planned to go to HalтАЩs
poolside barbecue on Saturday. I had hoped Marcy would learn some things from
his daughter. Suzi wasnтАЩt a patch on those gorgeous girls with their horses, but she
did have style, and Marcy was going to need all the help she could get.
Denise gave me one of those inscrutable glances sheтАЩd been giving me lately
and shrugged. тАЬIf you wantтАжтАЭ SheтАЩd already told me she didnтАЩt much like the party
idea, back when I made the mistake of saying I thought Suzi was pretty sharp for a
kid her age. Denise said yes, like a knife, and Marcy was a wonderful girl who
needed to be recognized for what she was.
We hadnтАЩt exactly argued, but IтАЩd felt uncomfortable. She should know I love
Marcy more than anything else; I just want her to have a happy life, and pretty girls
are happier. Denise should know that; she was a stunner.
So I said, тАЬIf itтАЩs clear,тАЭ and Marcy grinned at me, half braces and half teeth.
We ran the spot Friday, on schedule. IтАЩd noticed on the monitor that the
horsesтАЩ green eyes didnтАЩt show up well, and decided not to mention it. The girls
were pretty enough, one all gold and blue on a gold and white horse, and one all
black and green (did I mention that Charlene wore a green western shirt, something
that glittered, with black jeans and boots?) on a black horse. Not quite as gorgeous
as I rememberedтАФ in fact, not more than middling prettyтАФbut things rarely look the
same on tape, and IтАЩm used to it. After all, weтАЩd had to shoot the spot in
midafternoon in July. Maybe those little lines came from squinting at the bright
sunтАФthe camera sees whatтАЩs really there; it doesnтАЩt make allowances for lousy
lighting. KellyтАЩs voice IтАЩd figured wouldnтАЩt tape wellтАФbreathy, a little too highтАФbut
I was surprised at CharleneтАЩsтАФit sounded more hoarse than husky. But againтАФa hot
day, midafternoonтАФmaybe sheтАЩd been thirsty. Marcy thought the horses were great;
I donтАЩt know if she even looked at the riders.
Saturday morning, traffic held us up north of the city, and if Marcy hadnтАЩt
been humming tunelessly beside me, IтАЩd have turned back. It was nothing but a little
pissant country town with two pretty girls riding horses in a tacky parade; weтАЩd get
hot and dusty, and eat too much cheap greasy foodтАФHalтАЩs pool would be a lot
more fun. But Denise had sent us off smiling; she wouldnтАЩt like it if I changed plans
on her now.
We had to park at the far end of a dusty field beside the townтАЩs rickety little
football stadium, crammed in between a pickup truck with its bed full of assorted
junk, and a rusty barbwire fence. It was a two-block walk to the parade route,
nothing much in the city, but here a hot, sweaty trek past sunburned yards and
houses flaking ancient paint. They looked even older, more faded, today than they
had on the Wednesday before. Two people came out of one house, and glanced at
us without speaking.
We got to the main street a little late, and had to crowd in behind a double row
of others. A little boy rode by on a bicycle decorated with crepe paper, holding a
red ribbon in his teeth. I glanced at my watch. Time and more for the parade to start.
Sweat trickled down my sides; I could smell the hair spray from the huge bouffant
arrangement on the tall woman next to me. A puff of wind blew a wiry strand of it
across my nose; I batted it away, blinking at the dust, just as another, sharper puff