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

known that I was lighter than anyone else around, and if it got rid of me it would only
mean more work. I live on the edge of the city, and my ranchette came with a
two-stall stable and corral (courtesy of the previous owners who had two teenage
daughters) but we don’t have a horse even though Marcy’s as horse-crazy as any
other girl.
Joe didn’t notice, but then Joe’s from Houston, and where he grew up he
never saw a horse in real life till he moved away. For all Joe knows, horses might
have eyes every color of the rainbow. Joe just nodded and swung the camcorder
around as usual, and let me do the interview.
Kelly kept chattering away, telling us about her friend named Charlene—she
thought maybe we’d like a shot of both of them on their horses. Charlene had
always ridden right behind her in the parade, she said. I guess Joe and I both were
thinking the same thing: girls like Kelly had girlfriends with names like Charlene, and
the girlfriends were always a lot less pretty but very energetic and sweet. Sweet, out
here, means nothing to look at, and not enough spunk to leave. I tried not to let
myself think about Marcy, my Marcy, who was born to be sweet…
Charlene, Kelly went on, wrote poetry and painted pictures, and was going to
be a famous writer someday. Joe and I looked at each other and managed not to
sigh, and said, Sure, we’d be glad to meet her friend, but the folks back at the
station couldn’t ever use all we’d shot. We always had that excuse. So Kelly rode
off down the street, and for once, a back view looked good in the long lens. Joe
caught some of it, just for us.
When she came back, we had another shock. Charlene could have been
Kelly’s twin for size and shape, with long curly black hair and a face out of an art
book. Kelly was pretty—Kelly was typical golden-girl all-American long-legged
gorgeous—but Charlene had bone to keep her beautiful for years, while Kelly would
find out in her thirties that a round chin can double all too easily. Charlene had a
black horse to match her hair, the blackest, shiniest horse I ever saw outside of a
china figurine, not a brown hair on him. And green eyes.
Now one green-eyed horse would be a marvel, the sort of thing that’s a freak.
Two green-eyed horses— one black, and one palomino, and both with the prettiest
girls I’d seen in years on their backs—that’s something else. The black horse gave
me the same mischievous sidelong glance as the golden one had, and I noted that
Charlene also wore wickedly roweled spurs and had one helluva long-shanked bit,
like Kelly’s, in that beast’s mouth. I got a cold feeling on the back of my neck, and
decided not to worry about it; it wasn’t my business, and the girls were easy to look
at. That was our business.
“Charlene used to lead the parade,” said Kelly, throwing her friend one of
those smiles that cuts your hand if you touch it. “But then I got Sunny.”
I think I’d have let them lead it together—it must be spectacular anyway, with
two gorgeous girls on those two handsome horses—for horses—and why not both
in front? But Charlene was giving Kelly a smile to match the one she’d been given,
and her voice, when she spoke, was husky and warm and in keeping with that face.
“I didn’t want to hog it forever,” she said. “Besides, the Texas flag looks
better with a black horse. And I know you’ll be just as generous when someone else
is ready to take over.” Kelly smiled back, a little stiffly, and I figured they weren’t
really friends. How could they be? Two pretty girls in such a small town are born
rivals, and if they don’t know it, everyone makes it clear to them. About the time that
one beat the other out for class sweetheart or most beautiful, friend had become an
empty term. You don’t, right out loud, talk about enemies.