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The horses were long gone. I looked around the derelict grounds, which bore little resemblance to the place I’d visited as a child. Winter-dead weeds bobbed in the biting wind broadcasting that nature was reclaiming its territory. Weather-worn outbuildings begged for a fresh coat of paint, or perhaps just a can of gasoline to end the suffering. Across the rutted parking lot, a decrepit mobile home looked a bit off plumb, as if leaning against the unrelenting wind. A rusty pickup truck sat in a potholed drive next to the place. It appeared to have four flat tires and no tailgate. An equally questionable horse trailer was backed in next to it. The finish was badly oxidized and faded lettering that had likely once saidWildwood Stables now saidild ood ables, which had been owned and operated by my late Uncle Phil. The grounds were situated at the dead end of Horse Camp Road, a two-mile-long private drive featuring a slew of washouts, overgrown vegetation, and unavoidable ruts. One would think that such a nefarious approach would have discouraged trespassing, but empty beer cans, used condoms, syringes and God knows what else gave evidence that the place was the frequent destination for naughtiness.

“So, what do you think, Kat?” asked my father, breaking into my mental ramblings.Kat was short for Kathryn and my last name, Wilde, invited unwelcome name meddling resulting in the annoying high school nickname of Wildcat. I guess it could have been worse, since I was very tall for a girl (5’9”) and the mean girls tried to dub me Amazon Woman, but it never stuck. Plus I had been pretty good at volleyball in my day.

Dad looked at me then hoisted one foot up on a rickety corral board. Well, to a cowboy, it was a corral. To an English equestrian, it was a paddock. I fancied myself as the latter.

In order to spare Dad’s feelings, I tried to be diplomatic, without being too enthusiastic. “Well, it certainly is a fixer-upper,” I said, infusing my voice with false perkiness.Oh my God, how things have fallen to rack and ruin! was what the voice in my head was saying.

“We could do it,” Dad said. “We’d get some hired help, and of course Clara would need to be convinced. There would be a certain financial investment involved.”

Clara was my mother who rarely shared the same visions as my father. However, they seemed to make it work, even though I often felt pressured to “pick sides.” Sometimes I longed for a sibling to share the burden of strong-willed parents. I guess when I was born, either my parents felt they couldn’t improve on perfection, or believed it best to save the world from too many Wildes. Either way, they never provided me with a brother or sister to loathe and blame things on.

Looking at the substandard accoutrements throughout the compound, it was likely that Mom and I might share a similar opinion of the place. I would have to say that on a scale of one to ten regarding career opportunities, the defunct Wildwood Stables was around a two (with a “one” being either waitressing or prostitution). However, it’s not like I had a lot of options glowing brightly on my horizon. But horses?

I had loved riding as a kid. When I was just a tot and we visited Uncle Phil, he plunked me on some dead-broke horse and led me around in a circle. As I got older, he took me on trail rides through the Crystal Lake Wilderness that abutted the Wildwood property. I remembered the sense of freedom, being out there on a horse.

Eventually Uncle Phil hired an international grad student from the college to teach English riding. The girls, including me, all thought he was positively hot, since he had an English accent and said things such as,Now luv, you were smashing on that first jump but bloody awful after that. I even won third place in a small schooling horseshow, which was mor