Pam was taking no chances. “Come along, little dogie, come along . . .” she sang in her high soprano. Chris’s prophecy came startlingly true, though. Pie was so impatient to join her Chincoteague family that she took her place in the trailer as if it had been marked in chalk with a X.
At last they were all packed in place: Sunshine on one side of the partition, Patches and Pam’s Pie on the other, and little Piper already asleep in the front compartment. Sandy closed and bolted the gate.
“All aboard!” she cried. “Fasten your seat belts!”
They were finally on their way, singing “Home, Home on the Range.”
Sandy sang her loudest, as if all her prayers and dreams from childhood had been answered. But it was like whistling in the dark. She was worried, fearfully worried, about little Piper. He was getting no nutrition whatsoever. The night before, and that very morning, he had refused to siphon his milk from the rubber gloves. He had even rejected Sandy’s fingers soaked in milk and all other acts of friendly persuasion.
“I should have known better!” Sandy said aloud. “A suckling baby should not be taken from its mother, no matter what the odds are.”
“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “If Grandpa Beebe was alive he’d have stamped his foot and said, ‘I ain’t a-going to let you do it.’” Pam looked at Sandy with tears spilling down her cheeks. “Mom,” she sobbed, “should we take him back? What if he never eats?” But it was too late. The decision had been made.
At last, eight stops later, their temperamental Piper, ignoring the gloves as usual, plunged his whole head into the bucket of milk almost up to his eyes, and took three big guzzles. Then, with milk dripping from his whiskers, he blinked and looked up at his audience as if to say, “What’s the fuss about? Don’t you know this is the way it’s done?”
Twenty hours later, with all occupants safe but exhausted, the van pulled up in front of the pasture at Stolen Hours Farm. Chris was first out, mumbling about his boa babies. Robert, the thoroughbreds’ trainer, came running from the stable. He gave a yodel of welcome, then fell into silence as he opened the tailgate. His jaw hung wide for seconds, then he let out a steam-whistle bray. “Ye gods, Doc, was this a four-for-one special for the biggest spender?”
Pam answered for Sandy. “You know Mom . . . if one pony is good, let’s take four.”
Robert was still shaking his head as he lowered the gate.
Sandy said, “Please, Robert, will you get the little sorrel on the left? Then I’ll back Sunshine out.” Sunshine needed no help. She flew down the ramp and made a beeline for lush green grass—to sniff and taste and roll in its coolness.
Pam was already inside the trailer with her arms around Pie, talking to her and keeping her and Patches from following blindly after Sunshine.
“Pie, meet Robert,” Pam said. “You better be nice to him. He’s our boss man. Patches belongs to Chris.”
Sandy went to her baby Pied Piper in his quarters up front. She expected to see him crumpled in a state of exhaustion. Instead he was up on his feet looking fresher than any of them.
Robert chuckled and quietly took over. “I’ve the makings of a hot bran mash for the big one,” he said, “and plenty of milk supplement for the little one. The others can have the run of the pasture.”
“Bless you, Robert,” Sandy said, just as Chris came tearing around the corner of the house shouting his news.
“I’ve got a whole mess of baby boas! I counted at least forty five!”
“Hmmph . . . we’ve got exactly four ponies, lots bigger’n your yucky old worms,” Pam said.
Chapter 8
SUNSHINE
The morning after their return from Chincoteague happened to be a Sunday. With four new Chincoteague ponies there’d be visitors aplenty, but Sandy’s first task was to see how Piper and Sunshine had survived the night. As she approached their stall she softly called out their names. Her breath caught in her throat when Sunshine’s beautiful head shot up over the half door.
Sandy peered inside and stifled a giggle. For the second time in their brief acquaintance Piper looked up with milk dribbling from his whiskers. He was alerted. His ears swiveled. Then he kicked his milk bucket out of the way and ran to Sunshine. Already they’d formed a loving bond!
Sandy let them out to pasture. Robert was standing at the gate to the big pasture with its gleaming pool. Piper and Sunshine entered as if to the manor born. The air went wild with whinnies and buglings of welcome. Piper pranced around the little herd, then stopped short. His nostrils flared to sift and sort a new smell. Suddenly he whirled and plunged into the pool, aiming for a huddle of ducks splashing on the other side.
Robert yanked off his boots and dashed to the rescue. He scooped Piper out of the water and plopped him in the grass. Piper was decidedly vexed. Plainer than any words he snorted, “You-you-don’t you know I swam the Chincoteague Channel?”
Sandy rocked with laughter and explained pony penning to Robert. Finally he laughed, too, and they quieted to absorb the panorama before them. What spectacular splashes of color and action on the green!
Word of the Chincoteaguers spread fast. Clayton O’Quinn, one of their neighbors from Grosse Pointe Stud Farm, was the first to show up for a look-see at the new ponies. He was a very knowledgeable and respected horse breeder in the South. He made a quick assessment of the new arrivals and settled his interest on Sunshine.
“She’s a fine-looking mare, Sandy,” he declared. “A fine-looking mare indeed!”
• • •
Days—then months—raced by, seasons blending together in a blur of constant activity. Sandy spent as much time with Sunshine, Piper, and the other ponies as she could, but her medical practice and the demands of running the thoroughbreds’ training program kept her so busy! She often felt there simply weren’t enough hours in the day.
Before she knew it, spring had rolled around once again. Springtime in Ocala was Sandy’s favorite time of the year—the time when she saved alternate Sundays for visiting other horse farms to see the offspring of new stallions. Each new thoroughbred foal brings another chance for a great racehorse. Hope and anticipation run high as two-year-olds leave for the track. Gangling yearlings shed their winter coats and hint at the promise ahead. Stallions rear up snorting and bugling whenever a horse trainer pulls up in front of the stable.
One Sunday when it was Sandy’s turn to go a-visiting, her last stop was Clayton O’Quinn’s stud farm. It was a sultry day, warm even for Florida at that time of year, and a glass of iced tea laced with lemon had never tasted so delicious.
As they sat and sipped, O’Quinn startled Sandy by saying, “I’m interested in hearing Sunshine’s story.”
Her heart began to race. If someone of O’Quinn’s stature appreciated their Chincoteague prize, he was entitled to the full story. Her answer tumbled out in a rush. It was probably long-winded and disjointed, but Clayton’s reply was delivered with quiet slowness and intensity, as if it had been brewing for some time.
“What would you think of breeding Sunshine to one of my quarter horses or thoroughbred stallions?”
Her choice was instantaneous. “A thoroughbred, of course!” she said. “What a combination!”
As they walked up and down the rows in the stallion barn, Sandy was like a child in a candy store. She read the names: Heritage . . . Distinction . . . New Prospect . . . Big Bluffer. She studied the stallions. All were powerful. All had great conformation. Each could give his offspring speed and heart. What a dilemma!
She stopped longest in front of Big Bluffer’s stall. “Why, he’s the son of Bold Ruler,” Sandy exclaimed. “Bold Ruler was a bright bay with a whisper of red. So his son, Big Bluffer, might intensify the color of Sunshine’s colt.”
O’Quinn interrupted. “If you can tolerate my boasting,” he said, “Bluffer’s action is far more exciting than his color. Even in play, his getaway is clean and fluid, as if he had to win every skirmish.”
Suddenly Sandy bit her lips, thinki
ng of the $10,000 stud fee.
Clayton laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. This time, Sandy, your Sunshine will have a freebie with a pedigree.”
The choice of Big Bluffer seemed to please Sunshine, too. They mated late in October. Three months later, a veterinarian examined her and solemnly made his pronouncement: “Sunshine is definitely in foal.”
The early months of her pregnancy went by happily, but by the tenth month a nagging worry had crept into Sandy’s heart. Sunshine’s belly was enormous . . . and still growing! Had the big, brawny son of Bold Ruler been the wise choice of mate for their delicate girl?
Chapter 9
I’M A FILLY!
Stolen Hours Farm was a strange mixture of creatures. The thoroughbreds were the solid, pay-the-bills residents. On the other side of the fence were the frisky, frolicking wild ones—the Chincoteague ponies, like bright jewels on green velvet. Each group contributed to the beauty of the other.
One autumn morning at five, Sandy’s bedside phone played a duet with her alarm clock. Andrew, the farm manager, sounded distressed. “I’m sorry to bother you so early,” he said, “but I can’t go with you to the Keeneland auction this year. Too much going on here . . . we have more buyers coming in from out of state.”
“I understand, Andrew. Any special requests?”
“Yes! We need at least three yearlings. We could actually use three or four. Have a good trip, Doc. You’re the one with the sure eye; you won’t need me.”
The September Yearling Sales at Keeneland, Kentucky, were an exciting assignment for Sandy. She had no hesitation about leaving home because the children were in school, and Judy was there after school. As for Sunshine, she was contented and not due to foal until October.
The moment she landed and joined visitors entering the Keeneland Amphitheater, Sandy was struck again by its beauty. It was like a theater-in-the-round, except the stage was square and covered with grass-green sawdust. Instead of a wooden rail separating the horses from the buyers a rope of white satin kept them apart. The effect was like a wedding; or maybe it was indeed a wedding, of a different sort.
The horses strutted by, sleek and bare except for a tiny white patch on their hips bearing a buy-number. All around, Sandy heard catalog pages rustling as the auctioneer’s mellow voice called out each yearling’s name and number with a quick description of its forebears.
In two hours she had bid on four yearlings, won three, and had made shipping arrangements. Then with a sudden need to get home she hailed a cab driver who could have been a graduate of the Indianapolis 500. His heavy foot and delicate hands helped her catch an earlier flight than the one she had planned to take. It set her down in Ocala before dusk.
When she turned her key in the front door she sensed that the house was deserted. “Judy! Pam! Chris!” she shouted. “Where is everybody?” The kitchen was quietest of all—with no pots bubbling on the stove, no familiar scents of onion and garlic and oregano, and no pit bull pup (Chris’s latest pet) tumbling in circles at her feet.
Looking for a snack, she turned toward the cutting block and caught her breath at sight of a bud vase holding one yellow rose with a matching yellow note:
I’m a filly!
Mom and I are fine.
I’m pretty, too.
Sandy dropped everything. With her heart pounding she ran to Sunshine’s paddock. In the dusky half-light a small chestnut face with a white blaze peered at her from around Sunshine’s hindquarters.
At the sound of Sandy’s voice Sunshine bolted toward her with an “I’m hungry” nicker. Slowly Sandy opened the gate, and to her delight and amazement, out jumped Sunshine’s baby!
The foal was big and splashy with paint spots like Sunshine’s, but with more white on her body. She had a lovely, balanced head and neck. Her legs were straight and she had a good shoulder and rump. She appeared to be perfect! As if to say, “I can move just fine, too—watch me,” she gave a little buck and ran around Sunshine.
“Twilight,” Sandy murmured. Twilight! What a blessed time of day for a blessed event! Instinctively Sandy had named the foal—not just because she first saw her in the mystic hour between sunset and dark night, but also because the foal was born in the twilight of Misty’s era.
There are some moments that grownups just can’t describe, but children can. Pam and Chris burst in on Sandy’s joy.
“Mom!” they shouted in unison. “Mr. O’Quinn wasn’t home. We ran to tell him about Sunshine’s baby.”
“Mom, you should have seen it,” Pam said. “It was awesome.”
“What was?”
“We found both Sunshine and her baby down.”
“Yeah, they were both lying down . . .” Chris was quick to corroborate.
“But not all the way,” Pam added. “Their front feet were set deep in the straw, but their necks and heads were up.”
“What,” Sandy asked, “is so awesome about that?”
“They were nose to nose.”
Sandy’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yes! They were! It was like they were saying, ‘Who are you? And who are you?’”
Now Pam came over and reached for her mother’s hand. Her voice was no longer loud and excited. In a whisper she confided, “Mom, it really was awesome. The baby was still wearing her sac, the one she lived in while she was inside Sunshine.”
Sandy felt shivers in the small of her back. “But, Pam,” she asked, “how could they have been nose to nose with the baby still wearing that strong sac?”
“Robert told us that in cleaning up her newborn, Sunshine must’ve pushed the sac to her shoulders before Robert got there. Robert was so funny. He just stood there, gawking and saying, ‘Well, I’ll be danged . . . she looks like a little old grand dame wearing a silk cape.’”
Chapter 10
WHY NOT?
Only in her golden-brown splashes of color and in her two-toned tail—half white, half brown—did Twilight resemble Sunshine. In her action and disposition she was as different as war from peace. Sunshine long ago had been gentled and had a tranquil nature; but it was the hot blood of Bold Ruler that had also been transmitted to Twilight.
Twilight was as unpredictable as a dangling electric wire. She liked to race along the fence rail, taunting the thoroughbreds on the other side, daring them to race. She had speed without question. She scared Sunshine and Sandy half to death as she skidded to the fence corners by sliding on her haunches and waiting until the last second to wheel out. Her poor mother tried to follow with frustrated whinnies, but she just couldn’t keep pace. None of the other Chincoteague ponies could. There was nothing tagalong about Twilight. She went far afield and returned only to nurse.
Unlike her mother, Twilight barely tolerated the bristles of the grooming brush and would pull away from a hand that longed to pet her. But in her frequent gallops she obviously enjoyed the cool fingers of the wind combing her coat.
Because Twilight was born at the wrong time of the year—in September instead of spring, when most of her thoroughbred neighbors were born—she had no foals to play with. Sunshine was the scapegoat for all of Twi’s giddy antics. More than once, Robert caught her taking a quick nip at Sunshine’s rump, then whirling around with a “catch-me-if-you-can” dare.
“Beats me,” he laughed, “who’s in control here. Seems Twilight makes up the rules, nip by nip.”
When Twi outgrew milk and pellets and began chewing wisps of hay, Sunshine in no way objected. But when she began nosing into her mother’s oats, mother and daughter had to be separated at mealtime. From then on Twi weaned herself.
Sandy refused to let Twilight be trained as early as most thoroughbreds. She had seen many two-year-olds break down from racing before their bones were fully formed. Such a fate would not happen to Twilight. For two whole years they let Twilight run free in the pasture with her more placid Chincoteague friends.
Her only separation from them was a short confinement to a stall to await the farrier’s examination o
f her feet. Most ponies would adjust to temporary restriction. Not Twilight! She could do more shenanigans in a twelve-by-twelve stall than most animals in an open pasture. She’d race. She’d rear. She’d buck herself into a lather. Then tensing every muscle, she’d crouch low and suddenly catapult herself straight up into the air . . . Once she bent an eight-foot steel door at the top while giving a last defiant kick.
In the quiet of her pasture, though, Twilight began training herself. This was her arena, and she made full use of it, clearing imaginary obstacles as if they’d been precisely laid out by a show committee.
Watching, the children and Sandy cheered her on, taking the jumps with her. Depending on how high or wide she’d jump, they’d shout,
“Over the chicken coop!”
“Over the post and rail.”
“Oh no! Lookit! She just cleared a double-oxer.”
The more horseplay she practiced, the more they puzzled about her future. How should her strong competitive spirit be directed?
It was a scruffy, bumptious hound dog that provided the first answer. One autumn morning when the dew was still fresh, this stray hound, intent on sniffing the zigzag tracks of a rabbit, invaded Twilight’s territory. Twi lifted her head from grazing and cast a baleful eye in the hound’s direction. Her whole body cried out, “Let me at him!” Her ears pricked, her nostrils flared, her tail arched. For a moment she froze as if to plan a course of action. This could have given the hound time to retreat, but he only nosed deeper onto Twilight’s territory.
The skirmish was on! Dirt flew from all four feet as Twi dug into the ground. Her ears flattened. Her neck stretched down to earth, and her jaws opened as she snaked after the enemy in a cutting position. She overtook him and began maneuvering him, twisting, turning him off his course, toward the fence line. For a full second the two creatures faced each other. Then the hound bolted toward the fence.
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