“ ‘Ten-point-two Shetland,’ ” Carole read aloud, “ ‘goes English and Western, drives, Pony Clubs.’ ” That was an easy call. A pony like that would go to a little boy or girl looking for a first horse—bought by a parent who put safety first. The ad below the Shetland was completely different: “ ‘Superbly talented four-year-old jumper,’ ” Carole read. That was a horse that would probably go to a professional—somebody like Max, Carole mused, a rider who wanted a horse that could be trained to win, then resold at a profit.
Curious now, Carole read on. There was an Arabian that sounded like a nice trail horse; an Appaloosa that had won at barrel racing; a seasoned hunter; an unbroken yearling colt. There really seemed to be a horse for every kind of rider under the sun. That was what made horses so fascinating, Carole thought. You could never get to know all of them. The types were endless.
“Carole, you here yet?”
Stevie’s voice startled Carole out of her reverie. “I’m in the tack room!” she called.
A moment later Stevie burst in. “Belle’s a mess,” she announced. “She looks like she’s been rolling in mud for three straight days.” Belle was Stevie’s horse, a Saddlebred-Arabian cross.
“I hate to say it,” Carole joked, “but she probably has been.”
“I know, I know—the pastures are muddy swamps from all the rain,” Stevie said, flopping down beside Carole. She peered over Carole’s shoulder. “What’s this? Oh, cool! The new Horseman’s Weekly. Are you looking for a new horse?”
“Of course not!” Carole retorted. “I was just looking at the ads for fun!”
Stevie gave her friend a strange look. “I was just kidding, Carole,” she said.
“OH—RIGHT,” SAID Carole, embarrassed.
“Maybe I should trade Belle in,” Stevie joked, “and get a horse that doesn’t like mud!”
Now Carole laughed for real. Everyone knew that such a horse didn’t exist. “Let’s see … who would you buy?” she asked. “The ‘superbly talented four-year-old?’ ”
“Nah—too green.” Stevie leaned over the newspaper, reading. “Hmmm … How about this one: ‘sixteen-point-two hand, eight-year-old Dutch warmblood. Experienced, high-level dressage horse. Big, floating trot—’ ”
Carole leaned in, too. “Wait, where’s that one? I didn’t see it before.”
Stevie pointed to the ad. “Sounds pretty nice, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Carole, surprised that she had missed it.
“Especially for today’s dressage lesson,” Stevie added. “I love dressage, but I’m sick of it! The Saddlebred in Belle may love the ring, but the Arabian in her wants to be out on the trail. And lately the Arabian is winning!”
“Now, Stevie,” said Carole, assuming a teacherly tone, “flatwork is good for you. Walking, trotting, cantering, figure eights, bending, lengthening and shortening the stride—those are the fundamentals of all equitation. Until one masters—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stevie interrupted, a touch crossly. “I know dressage is good for you. But today I’d just rather … go on a trail ride, okay?” With that she rose, picked up her saddle, and slung Belle’s bridle over her shoulder. Sometimes Carole’s enthusiasm for everything to do with horses got the tiniest bit annoying. Carole would never have understood about wanting to stay home and sleep in. She would never have wanted to make cookies instead of going to the barn. She just didn’t think like that. Starlight was her whole life.
“Do you want to come tack up with me?” Stevie asked, softening her tone.
“In a sec,” Carole replied. “I—uh—I’ll be there in a sec.”
After Stevie had gone, Carole picked up Horseman’s Weekly again. She started to skim the ad columns for the warmblood’s ad.
“Hi, Carole!” called a voice. This time it was Lisa, stopping by to get Prancer’s tack. Hastily Carole closed the newspaper as Lisa stepped through the door.
“Are you going to enter the contest?” Lisa inquired.
“What contest?” said Carole, confused.
“Oh, well, I see you’re reading Horseman’s Weekly. They’re sponsoring their annual writing contest. Here, let me see.”
Carole handed the newspaper to Lisa, who thumbed the pages till she found the ad she was looking for. “See? “ ‘Annual short story contest … This year’s topic: Write a story or the first chapter of a novel about a horse and rider facing a turning point … word limit: fifteen hundred …’ Well, you can read it for yourself.”
“Are you entering?” asked Carole. It sounded perfect for Lisa.
“I don’t know. I’m so busy.… I can’t really think of anything to write about, either. But you should enter, Carole.”
“You think so?”
Lisa shrugged. “Why not? It won’t take that much work, and the prize is usually a new saddle.” She folded the newspaper in half and laid it on a trunk. “Ready?”
“Ah … yeah,” said Carole, eyeing the paper.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that yours? I thought it was the Pine Hollow copy.”
“It is,” said Carole, embarrassed again. “It is. I was just … reading it.”
DRESSAGE. SOME PEOPLE pronounced it dressage. Some people said dressage. Either way, the goal was the same: to get the horse and rider moving in harmony. The horse was supposed to be supple, balanced, and attentive to its rider’s commands. The rider was supposed to be tall in the saddle, quiet, focused. Then why, Lisa wondered, did it feel as if every time Prancer went up, she went down? Why did Prancer stiffen through the corners as if she might tip over? Why did Lisa’s outside leg feel weak and her inside leg feel numb? Why couldn’t they look like the horses and riders in the textbooks on dressage? Every time Lisa passed the mirrors on the long side of the indoor ring, she cringed. She sneaked a glance at the rest of the class to see how her peers were faring.
Stevie and Carole didn’t seem to be doing much better. Belle was tossing her head—a sign of protest and impatience, not harmony. Starlight was prancing along. He looked as if he were overflowing with energy. Every so often he would shy at an imaginary ghost. Simon Atherton, on Barq, looked stiff and heavy-handed. The Arab was walking at a graveyard pace, leaning on the reins. Andrea Barry, riding her horse, Doc, had a pained, irritated expression on her face. After a moment Lisa guessed why: The girl’s boots looked brand new. They were probably a Christmas present she was breaking in—and if they were as tight as they looked, they were pinching her hard, making it impossible to use her legs properly. Finally Lisa focused on Veronica diAngelo. To Lisa’s annoyance, the snobbish girl looked relaxed and confident. Danny, Veronica’s top-dollar show horse, was walking happily along with a spring in his step. Veronica’s tanned face told the story: The diAngelos had taken one of their deluxe vacations, leaving stable hand Red O’Malley to exercise Danny. Whenever the diAngelos went away they paid extra to have the expensive horse exercised. Red was an excellent rider, so Veronica always came home to a well-schooled horse.
“Not bad, Veronica,” called Max from the center of the ring. “You’ve got him walking nicely on the bit.”
“He means, ‘Not bad, Red,’ ” grumbled Stevie as Belle caught up to Prancer.
Lisa flashed a grin at her friend. At least with The Saddle Club, she thought, you always saw the lighter side of things.
“All right, everyone pick up a trot—a sitting trot,” Max commanded.
Lisa saw Stevie grimace. Rising or posting to the trot was much easier. Sitting could be jarring and uncomfortable.
“Could it get any worse?” Stevie muttered, shortening her reins. “I’m sore already, from the warm-up.”
“At least we’re not riding without stirrups,” Lisa whispered.
As if he had heard her, Max looked right at the two of them and said, “No, wait a minute. First everyone drop his or her stirrups. Then pick up a sitting trot.”
Lisa and Stevie groaned in unison before doing what they’d been told.
Across the ring Carole murmured, “Darn! D
arn, darn, darn!” This just wasn’t her day. She had been so busy reading Horseman’s Weekly that she had completely forgotten about giving Starlight a prelesson warm-up. Now he was paying her back by spooking at every shadow and speck of dirt. Steeling herself, Carole took her feet out of the stirrups, which she crossed over Starlight’s neck. Sure enough, the minute she picked up a trot, he got faster and faster, as if to say, “I hate dressage! When can we jump?”
“Have you been longeing him, Carole?” Max called.
Carole had no choice but to shake her head. “I—I haven’t had time,” she said, though she knew it was a lame excuse.
“Make time, Carole,” Max said sternly. “You know how fit he is. You’ve got to take the edge off.”
Carole said nothing, only nodded. The sole response she could have made was: “I know! I know!” As she rounded the corner of the ring near the stalls, Starlight plunged forward and gave a small buck. All at once Carole was fed up. Outwardly she remained calm; she was far too good a horsewoman to take out her frustration on her horse. She straightened him out and brought him back to a steady trot. But inwardly she wished she were mounted on a horse who liked these drills, who liked dressage, who didn’t need eight jumps in front of him to get down to work …
“Lisa, your seat belongs in the saddle, not on Prancer’s neck. Simon, tighten your reins, they’re flopping all over the place. Stevie—Stevie!” Max sounded irate. “Did you hear me say drop your stirrups?”
“Yes,” came Stevie’s faint reply.
“Then why are your feet in yours?” Max demanded.
“Because my legs are killing me!” exclaimed Stevie, to the delight of the rest of the class.
“After five minutes?” Max asked doubtfully.
“Yes! Belle’s trot is so bouncy! Couldn’t we canter?”
“Blame your own fitness, Stevie, not your horse’s gait.”
“But Max,” Stevie pleaded, “five minutes on her is like … half an hour on another horse!”
“Well, then, I suppose half an hour is like three hours. You can let me know if I’m right at the end of the lesson,” Max added, a glint in his eye. As Stevie moaned, Max dragged a few trotting poles into place and laid them on the ground. “All right. Starting with Simon, assume jumping position, turn down the center line, and trot over the poles.”
AT THE END of the lesson, Max summoned the riders into the center of the ring. “There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I’ll never walk again,” Stevie muttered.
“Any questions?”
Simon Atherton put up a hand.
“Yes?”
“Why did we use trotting poles in a dressage lesson?” Simon asked. “I thought they were for warming up before jumping.”
“Good question. Who can answer it?”
Several hands were raised.
“They’re good for lengthening and shortening stride,” Andrea said.
“Right. Who else?”
“They make the horses pick up their feet?” Lisa guessed.
“Ye-es, okay: They make the horses pay attention and move more alertly,” said Max. “Anyone else? Carole?”
Carole looked up from Starlight’s mane. “What? Sorry?” Brooding over her and Starlight’s poor performance, she had missed the question.
Max repeated it. “Give us a very basic answer.”
“Hmmm … I guess they would make the lesson more interesting?” Carole ventured.
“That’s right. It’s very important to vary your schooling routine,” Max explained. “You shouldn’t just get on every day, walk, trot, canter, two cross rails, that’s that. Horses are like people: They get bored if they do the same thing over and over, just the way you would. I’m mentioning it now because it’s more of a problem in winter than in summer. In winter you’re riding indoors more, taking fewer trail rides, going to fewer competitions. Horses can get barn fever, which can make them cranky and stubborn. By throwing in a few surprises, like trotting poles in a dressage lesson, you can liven things up.”
“Is that what torturing your students does?” Stevie moaned. “Livens things up?”
“What? By riding without stirrups?” Max grinned. “No, that toughens things up—namely, your legs and seat. I can’t have Pine Hollow turning into a bunch of couch potatoes just because it’s January!”
“Couch potatoes!” Stevie wailed. “I feel more like mashed potatoes!”
“Well, Stevie, you’ll have plenty of time to recover. First of all, I want everyone to take tomorrow off. It’s Sunday. Give yourselves a rest. And secondly, I have an announcement to make: This will be your last lesson for two weeks.” Max paused, looking slightly sheepish at the murmurs that followed. “No, I’m not going off to hunt in Ireland or teach clinics in England or judge an international Pony Club competition. I won’t be anywhere near horses for two weeks. I’m, uh, going on vacation.”
There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the group. Like many horse people, Max Regnery never went on vacation—except to take a busman’s holiday.
“Who talked you into it, Max?” Lisa inquired, though she had a pretty good idea of the answer.
“Deborah,” Max replied, as Lisa had thought he would. “Naturally.”
“Do you need a baby-sitter?” Stevie asked.
Max smiled. “No, but thanks for asking. We’re taking Maxi with us. We’re going up to Vermont to visit Deborah’s parents. The Hales would never speak to us again if we left their granddaughter with a sitter.”
Maxi was the Regnerys’ baby girl. The Saddle Club had been there when she was born, and they had taken her on her first horseback ride. Sometimes they felt like Maxi’s aunts.
“But,” Max continued, “getting back to the two weeks I’ll be away, I expect you all to work very hard. Your next lesson will be the Saturday after next.” He paused and seemed to be thinking. The Saddle Club waited nervously. The words work very hard followed by a silence could mean only one thing: Max was devising a scheme to ensure that they worked very hard. A moment later he spoke up again. “I want you all to work very hard,” he repeated. “So why doesn’t everyone plan on demonstrating what he or she has worked on? Instead of your usual lesson, I’ll expect a performance of sorts from each of you. It will be a little test to see how you do without supervision.”
Stevie, Lisa, and Carole exchanged glances. They weren’t fooled for a minute by that word little. Max would expect real progress.
“Max?” Veronica said. “I’m afraid my performance will have to be on the slopes. You see,” she added with a giggle, “I’m going skiing out West for the next ten days.”
“I thought you already went on vacation!” Stevie blurted out indignantly.
Veronica smiled sweetly. “I already went on vacation to the Caribbean. I haven’t taken my ski holiday yet.”
“Yes, well, you’ll have to do the best you can, Veronica,” Max said shortly.
“All right, Max, I’ll try my hardest,” she promised.
“Is Red going to be in charge?” Carole inquired, ignoring the gagging noises Stevie was directing at Veronica.
“Yes—Red and my mother. Stevie,” Max asked, “is something the matter?”
“Oh, no, Max. I was just wishing Veronica a great trip.” The change in Stevie’s expression from disgust to innocence was so fast that Carole and Lisa had trouble keeping straight faces. “You have a great trip, too, Max,” Stevie added.
“Thanks,” Max said dryly. “I will.”
AFTER THE LESSON, Lisa untacked in a hurry. She gave Prancer the barest brushing. There was no time to put polish on the mare’s hooves, practice braiding her forelock, or go for that extra shine with the stable rag. She was barely going to make her hair appointment as it was. “Sorry, Prancer,” she murmured. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” She closed the door of Prancer’s stall and latched it.
“Want to help me sweep the tack room?” Carole asked as the girls hung up their saddles and bridles.
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br /> “Uh, I can’t today, Carole,” Lisa said. “My mom’s waiting. I have to get a haircut.”
“Oh. Okay,” said Carole.
“Where? Cosmo Cuts?” Stevie asked.
Lisa nodded. “It was the only time Charles could fit me in.”
“Sure, I’ll bet. You just want to get out of sweeping the tack room,” Stevie teased.
“That’s not true!” Lisa said hotly. “I always help out!”
Stevie looked at her friend, her eyebrows raised. “Jeez, what is it today? Nobody can take a joke!”
“Oh,” said Lisa, embarrassed. “Sorry. Anyway, I guess I’ll—I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
“Monday, you mean,” Carole corrected her. “We have tomorrow off.”
“That’s right!” Lisa exclaimed. Embarrassed for a second time, she realized how enthusiastic she sounded. “I mean, you know, that’s, uh, right.”
“Enjoy the pampering,” Stevie murmured after her.
Lisa hurried out to the driveway. Her mother’s gray sedan was waiting. As Lisa slid into the passenger side she heard someone call, “Bye, Lisa!” She craned her neck to see who it was. Veronica diAngelo was getting into the next car over—a chauffeured white Mercedes. “Leaving early, huh, Lisa?” Veronica said pointedly.
Annoyed, Lisa nodded. “Yeah. Haircut,” she said, giving a brief wave as they drove off. It was one thing to have Carole and Stevie know she had left right after the lesson. It was another to be caught by Veronica.
“Wasn’t that that nice diAngelo girl?” asked Mrs. Atwood. “I do wish you would invite her to sleep over sometime, Lisa. Her family is so well connected.…”
STEVIE KNEW AN opportunity when she saw one. She sank down onto a tack trunk, yanked off her boots, and wiggled her toes. “Phew, what a lesson. I’m exhausted,” she said. She eyed Carole narrowly. “How are you feeling?”
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