Ali's Dream
by Jake Steele 

         I first met J. D. Guthrie a dozen years ago when he stopped by my place a week after he’d settled in at the neighboring ranch. He hauled his tall, wiry frame out of a battered Ford pickup and ambled into my stable, thumbs hooked in his pockets, Stetson dipped to his brow. First thing I noticed was the reluctant set of his jaw as though he’d rather be elsewhere.
         He scuffed a boot across the hay spread over the floor. “Wife said I needed to act neighborly and introduce myself,” he said. “So, here I am.” He stuck out a callused hand. “Name’s J. D. Guthrie. And you are . . .?”
         I chuckled and shook his hand. “Tom Coughlin. Good to meet you.”
         “Pleasure’s mine.” He rocked back on his heels and surveyed my horses. “Got yourself a dandy string of Arabians. The wife’ll love that. Damn woman talks about them fancy horses dawn to sundown.” A wry smile crinkled his lips. “But, she’s a sweetheart, so I let her bend my ear.” He peered at me with a defiant glint in his eye. “Me, I raise longhorns. Aggressive beasts, but I admire their tenacious will to adapt to anything.” He scratched the back of his head and studied me with one brow cocked. “I suppose a cattleman and a horse breeder can get along nowadays.”
         I nodded. “I’m sure we can.”
         He pointed at me and winked. “Just don’t get frisky and try to saddle up one of my longhorns.”
         Over the years our friendship grew. At times I swore J. D. had Longhorn blood in his veins. Hell, he was just like them; a fighter and survivor no matter what the hot Texas wind blew his way. He was an ornery cuss with a stubborn streak that could rival the most obstinate plow mule. Underneath his gruff demeanor, the cattleman harbored an unwavering devotion to his wife Alison, who he affectionately referred to as his ladylove.
         Now and again, we’d sit on his porch, watch the setting sun spread a flaming golden blanket across the mesquite plain. With boot heels propped atop the rail, we’d pass a bottle of Jack Daniels while cicadas serenaded us. Most times we talked ranching or cussed local politicians. Occasionally, after a few healthy swigs from the bottle, he’d reflect on his success. “Never would’ve happened,” he’d say, “without Ali by my side.” Then he’d inhale the night air through flared nostrils and rub his stubbled chin. “Damned if I know why the woman puts up with me. She could’ve done better.”
         Alison Guthrie, a petite raven-haired woman, didn’t share her husband’s penchant for cattle, but her devotion for the cantankerous man never faltered. They were life partners and she accepted him saddle, blanket and bridle. He’d given her what she never had: stability, roots and unconditional love.
         One night over dinner at their place, Alison, bolstered by too much wine, told the wife and I of her life before she met J.D. at a stock show in Tulsa. Her mother died young and her father became a rodeo drifter who dragged her from town to town while he chased dreams of winning a bull rider’s championship buckle. She spent her teens on the barrel racing circuit and won her share, but grew weary of the vagabond life and living in a cramped trailer.
         “Dad was an indifferent father who barely made a buck,” she’d said. Then her expression changed from sadness to anger. “He celebrated his failures with truck stop harlots and rotgut whiskey. Most times he treated me like a burden.”
         At eighteen, she struck out on her own and worked a variety of horse ranches. Determined to improve her lot in life, she learned the ways of a genteel woman and developed a passion for Arabian horses. She dreamed of raising them and competing in equestrian events. J.D. didn’t take to the idea. He’d listen, discuss it and then stall her with promises that never came to pass. The ranch always had one need or another that couldn’t wait.
         I can still hear the frustration in his voice when he’d bellow to me after Alison pressed him yet again to buy a few Arabians. “Dammit, Tom, why won’t that woman let it rest? I’m a cattleman, not a horse breeder.”
         Alison’s dream never faded.
         J. D. came by one day in what I figured was an attempt to pacify Ali and make amends for his broken promises. He stood with hands in his pockets and shoulders taut as though asking a favor rankled him. “I’d be obliged,” he said, “if Ali could come over now and again and ride one your Arabians and do whatever it is you folks do with them fancy horses.”
         “She’s welcome anytime, J.D.,” I replied. “My trainer’ll show her a few tricks.”
         Ali showed up the next day, dressed in white riding pants tucked into black boots and a long-tail coat. A smile beamed across her face as she gently pinched my cheek. “Thank you, Tom” She scurried off toward the stable, her white-gloved hand planted atop her derby.
         First time she rode, I spotted her natural talent and encouraged her to follow her dream.  After a few sessions with my trainer and hours of practice, she could guide my friskiest Arabian through its paces.
         A month later, I had dinner with J.D. at the Rancher’s Club in town. He cut a slice of steak and glanced up at me. “I hope it’s no burden having Ali come over so often.”
         “None at all,” I said. “She has the makings of a winner, my friend, but she needs more than I can give her.”
         He stabbed the piece of steak and pointed the fork at me. “Mind your business, Tom. I’ve thought about it, but a man can’t tend to his cattle and raise fancy horses at the same time. And I sure as hell wouldn’t trust a sizeable investment in horse flesh to one of my hands.”
         J.D. regretted that decision nine months later when ovarian cancer took Alison at age forty-four.
         For the best part of a year we only saw each other at Rancher’s Club meetings until he stopped attending. J. D. Guthrie was a broken man. He crawled into a bottle and talked of selling the ranch, claimed without Ali the place was nothing but dust and bullshit.
         A month or two after our last meeting, J. D. stunned me when he sold off half his cattle and bought the best Arabians he could find. He hired Willy Lutz, a respected trainer from Phoenix and added a few stable hands familiar with the breed. With everything in place, he renamed the ranch Ladylove Stables.
         At the end of the summer, he showed up at an equestrian show as a competitor. I asked him what in hell made him shift gears in his life and head down an unfamiliar road.
         “I’m doing what Ali should’ve done but didn’t, thanks to me. And I’m gonna win if it kills me,” he said. “For her.”
         He finished dead last, but I knew he’d improve; he had that tight-jawed determined look about him–and longhorn blood in his veins.
         Over the next several years he acquired an impressive string of Arabians. We went spur to spur at equestrian shows around Texas. I won more than my share, but J. D. never made it easy. He nipped at my boot heels like a pit bull. When he did beat me he’d lope out of the winner’s circle, toss me a wink and flash that “gotcha” grin of his.
         His fortunes improved the day he showed up at an early spring event in Laredo with an Arabian mare, black and shiny as fresh-pumped crude oil with a white diamond on her forehead. One look and I knew she was special. She had fire in her black eyes and a restless spirit. I would’ve swapped any three of my horses for that animal without a blink. A chill rippled across my shoulders when he told me her name: Ali’s Dream.
         From that day on, I couldn’t beat him.
         At a late summer equestrian show outside Waco, I found J.D.’s trainer, Willy Lutz, and congratulated him on the fine job he’d done with Ali’s Dream.
         He scratched the corner of his handlebar mustache and shook his head. “Can’t take the credit,” he said. “I’ve worked with J.D. on his riding technique, but I’ve done little with that horse. Hell, she don’t need me; that animal’s a natural. Besides, J. D. grooms, feeds and handles her every need. He won’t let another man touch her, much less ride her.”
         “Not unusual for a man to bond with his horse,” I said.
         Willy hiked a boot onto the fence rail and gazed across the corral. “Something eerie is going on, Tom. It’s more than a bond.  He’s got a love affair going with that horse, the likes of which I’ve never seen. It’s as though he and that horse have merged with one set of instincts and an unbeatable will to win.”
         “Seems to work,” I said. “I can’t beat them.”
         “Yeah, but this is something else.”
         “How’s that?”
         “The way he talks to that animal, you’d think it was a two-way conversation. Many nights he’s out in the stable grooming and talking to her until past midnight.” He shot me a side-glance. “If I believed in such things, I might wonder if his dearly departed wife wasn’t reincarnated in that horse.”
         I walked away from that conversation wondering if Alison’s inability to bear children was somehow connected to J.D.’s refusal to mate Ali’s Dream with my best stallion. I offered him a small fortune, but he turned me down flat.
         Ali’s Dream continued to win an impressive array of ribbons and awards over the next couple years and might have won more if time hadn’t caught up with J. D. His heart soured on him and doctors told him he couldn’t ride anymore. He turned his ranch duties over to his foreman. Other horses from Ladylove Stables continued to compete, but J. D. refused to let anyone ride Ali’s Dream.
         Despite reduced activity, his condition deteriorated. One summer night on his porch he asked for my help. His once ruddy complexion and strong jaw line now appeared sallow and gaunt. Powerful arms had withered to half their size. He sat rail straight, frail hands folded in his lap, his gaze fixed on the stable. “I need to ride her one more time,” he said. “While I still can.”
         Dry lightning cut the horizon and brought forth the rumble of distant thunder. I rocked back in my chair. “Bad idea, partner,” I said. “Doc says your ticker can’t take the stress.”
         He leaned forward and peered into the darkness, shoulders hunched, his hat dangling between his knees. “My heart’s been broke since Ali…” He sucked in a deep breath and held it a moment. “I’m gonna do it …with or without your help.”
         We sat in silence, the night air thick with the odor of fresh-baled hay, honeysuckle and the promise of cool rain. After a few minutes of soul-searching, I placed a hand on his shoulder. “I think you’re making a mistake. But, as a fellow horseman I understand. I’ll do what I can to give you another taste of glory.”
         I spread the word and made the arrangements. The next Saturday friends and curious strangers stood silently around the ring in anticipation of seeing the inseparable pair go through their winning routine.
         An hour before sunset they entered the ring. J. D., dressed in chaps, a burgundy western shirt and white Stetson sat tall and straight in the saddle. Cheers erupted as man and horse went through their paces. The horse never looked finer. She executed the four-beat walk, lope and gallop to perfection, as though she sensed a last hurrah. At the end of the performance, Ali’s Dream stopped center ring and bowed. J.D tipped his hat.
         Thunderous applause fell silent when J. D. wavered, dropped the reins and slumped forward in the saddle. For a long moment he clung to the horse’s neck, then lifted his head and whispered in her ear. He forced himself upright, a grimace of pain etched on his face. The horse cantered from the arena, the reins dragging in the dust, J.D. clutching the saddle.
         Darkness fell without a trace of man or horse.
         I searched throughout the night, assisted by several ranch hands. Dawn had cracked above the horizon when we rode up the hill that overlooked J. D.’s ranch house. I squinted into the rising sun and my heart sank when I spotted him under the lone oak where he’d buried Alison. At first I figured he’d fallen from the horse, but then I spotted the saddle, bridle and blanket propped against Alison’s tombstone. Ali’s Dream was nowhere in sight.
         I dismounted, walked over and knelt beside him. “Reckon you picked the best place to die.” I covered him best I could with the saddle blanket. “Rest in peace, my friend. I’ll make sure you’re buried beside Ali.”
         I hunted for the best part of a month but never found Ali’s Dream. I’m not a romantic sort or a religious man, but I like to think that no man other than J. D. ever owned or rode her, and somehow, somewhere he and Alison are together again. 

The End.

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