Ring of Fear

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I don’t know whether it was the June sun’s heat or sheer blinding fury that made me sweat so. Sweat, not the “glow” that ladies are said to show. Like that heavy-handed, brass-haired, buck-toothed society lady on her flashy, hammer headed black horse in the line in front of me, cool in her crisp yellow linen jacket and clinging pipe-stem hopsacking pants. (She must be either bowlegged or calfless.) Could the Sunbury County Fair judges see that the black gelding’s gaits jarred every bone in her body? (How did she keep that smile on her face?) My mare, Phi Bete, had floated so easily through her paces in this Ladies’ Hack Class, and simply hadn’t been noticed. Not with the black pulling stunt after stunt, being “expertly” controlled! (He hadn’t half the wits Phi Bete had.)

It wasn’t fair, I thought bitterly, the sweat dripping down my nose now, my hands swimming in the heavy leather gloves. The white shirt was plastered to my back, because the wool jacket, suitable for winter riding, was the only one I had. (I’d seen Mrs. Flashy-Black in three other outfits so far, and the show was only two days old.) She didn’t need the prize money, and she was taking hay from my horses and peanut butter from me.

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