Horse Fever

by Bonnie Bryant

  “Fine,” Carole said. “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.… I was just thinking that, you know, I’ve got some laundry to do at home. And with Lisa gone, we’re going to be a lot less efficient. So maybe we ought to, oh, say …”

  “Skip the barn work entirely?” Carole guessed, her black eyes sparkling.

  Stevie grinned. Unlike Lisa, Stevie didn’t mind being accused of ducking out on stable chores. It was a well-known fact that Stevie despised barn work. She didn’t really hate it, but work was work. And no work was the best work. She would have ducked out every day if she could! “Now, Carole, I know what you’re thinking, but—”

  Carole was about to argue Stevie into staying when she caught sight of the Horseman’s Weekly crushed under her friend’s right ankle. A curious instinct seemed to take over. She heard herself saying, in a falsely bright voice, “Hey, we don’t have to hang out every single day. It’s vacation! We should enjoy ourselves.”

  Surprised, Stevie sat up. “Now you’re talking!” she said. “So you’ll head out with me?”

  “Oh, no,” Carole replied. “I can’t. I’ve got to work with Starlight and organize my tack trunk and put my brushes in order and—”

  “All right, all right, you’re making me feel guilty!” Stevie protested.

  “Don’t,” said Carole. “I mean, I want to stay awhile, but you do what you need to do.”

  Disconcerted, Stevie put her boots back on. She’d been all ready to bargain with Carole, but Carole was letting her off the hook completely.

  “All right—well, bye,” Stevie said when she was ready.

  “Bye! Have fun!” Carole said.

  “Thanks,” Stevie said flatly. For the second time that day she found herself face-to-face with Carole’s constant and total devotion to Starlight. And for the second time she found it annoying. Couldn’t Carole ever think of anything else?

  On the way out Stevie passed Belle’s stall. She paused to say good-bye. She told herself she was just as devoted to Belle, but in a different way. “If you were a human, you wouldn’t want to clean tack, either,” she rationalized, rubbing the mare’s forehead. “Would you, you Southern Belle?

  “Whoops, I better skedaddle!” she said, hearing Mrs. Reg coming down the aisle. Before the older woman could catch her idle, Stevie had jogged out of the barn and down the driveway. But after fifty yards she was forced to slow to a walk—actually more like a pained shuffle. Hobbling home, she chewed on a thumbnail. Could it be true what Alex had said about her level of physical fitness? “Ha!” she said aloud. “Let him try riding without stirrups!”

  WHENEVER CAROLE ATE a piece of cake, she ate the cake first and saved the frosting for last. It was a habit she’d had for as long as she could remember. Sometimes it applied to other things, like what she did that day: As soon as Stevie left, Carole snatched up Horseman’s Weekly and turned right to the advertisements. But before letting herself study the ad Stevie had noticed, she reread some of the others. Then, making sure she was still alone, she slowly savored the “frosting.”

  16.2 hand, 8-year-old Dutch warmblood. Experienced, high-level dressage horse. Big, floating trot, excellent extensions. Imported from Holland three years ago. Has won major dressage competitions, both locally and nationally. King’s Ransom is ready to go all the way with the right rider.

  Carole looked up. She could almost see the horse’s “big, floating trot.” The phrase the right rider sent a shiver down her spine. What exactly did it mean? Did it mean an Olympic-level dressage rider? Or maybe a young rider with a lot of potential? Carole read the ad once more. Warmbloods, as she knew, were wonderful horses. Bigger and steadier than Thoroughbreds, they were bred for dressage and eventing, whereas Thoroughbreds were bred for racing. Originally from Europe, many types of warmbloods were now bred in the United States. Still, a horse that was imported had a certain allure, almost as if it were more authentic. It was one of Carole’s wildest dreams to be able to import a horse of her own. As she pictured herself in Holland or Germany, touring the national studs, the door opened and a woman came in.

  “So you’ve got the Horseman’s Weekly,” she said.

  Carole looked up. “Yeah, I was just reading about the annual writing contest,” she lied, wondering, as she did so, why she would bother to fib to a stranger. “Did you want the paper?”

  “I’ll have a look at the ads, if you don’t mind. But go ahead, tear out the page for the contest.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll—I’ll just copy down the rules later.” Hastily Carole handed over the paper.

  “Thanks. I’m Pat Naughton, by the way,” said the woman, extending a hand.

  Carole shook it. “Carole—”

  “Oh, I know who you are, Carole.”

  “You do?” said Carole. On closer look she thought she recognized the woman as well.

  “Of course. You own Starlight. You and he are one of the top junior teams at Pine Hollow. You’ve won everything—Pony Club, dressage, eventing, jumping—”

  “Mostly jumping,” Carole broke in, flattered and flustered at the same time. “Jumping is our favorite and it’s what we’re best at.”

  Pat Naughton beamed. “I’ll say. I’ve watched you two in lessons. Starlight’s fantastic over fences.”

  “He’s a great natural jumper—” Carole began.

  “Who had a great trainer,” Pat finished for her. “But you sure are lucky. If I had a horse even half as perfect as Starlight, I wouldn’t have to spend my days scouring the ads.” She tapped the newspaper. “Anything good this week?”

  “What are you looking for?” Carole inquired politely.

  “That’s what I keep asking myself!” said Pat. “May I?” She sat down beside Carole. “You see, I haven’t owned a horse since I was your age. I just got back into riding a year ago, when my daughter started kindergarten. I used to show. I rode hunters, jumpers, equitation—you name it. But this dressage stuff is pretty new to me.”

  Carole nodded understandingly. “I’ll bet you were doing dressage before without even knowing it.”

  “Really?” said Pat. “All this ‘on the bit’ stuff?”

  Carole laughed. “Sure. All that means is that the horse is moving forward from the leg and accepting rather than resisting the bit.”

  Pat looked impressed. “Wow.”

  Feeling shy, Carole averted her eyes. She was used to grown-ups being surprised at the information that would come popping out of her mouth, making her sound much older than she was. “It—It sounds like you want a good all-around horse,” she suggested, looking up again. “And probably something … experienced?”

  “Definitely!” Pat exclaimed. “I’ve got a daughter at home. I don’t need a green horse to raise at the same time.”

  Slowly, with a few knowledgeable questions, Carole managed to piece together an idea of what Pat wanted in her new horse. Horse shopping was not a precise science. A rider couldn’t expect to go out and find her dream horse, especially since a lot of the ads would exaggerate the pluses and downplay the horse’s faults. But it was good to at least have an idea of what characteristics—age, experience, and breed, for example—were most important. Some riders had little idiosyncrasies, like a favorite color, but Pat’s requirements were fairly straightforward. Besides experience, she needed a large horse because she was tall. Because of her daughter, she wanted something quiet-tempered. “It doesn’t seem as if it would be that hard,” Pat confessed, “but I’ve been looking for over a month with no luck.”

  “Let’s take a look,” suggested Carole, her enthusiasm for the project mounting. “You never know. This could be your lucky week.”

  Together she and Pat pored over the advertisements. Pat had a pencil, and whenever she saw something she liked, she marked it. Pretty soon Carole had Pat’s system figured out: A star meant “sounds great,” a circle meant “worth looking into,” and a squiggle meant “probably not but might as well give them a call.” The “seasoned hunter” got a st
ar. The “superbly talented four-year-old” got a squiggle. Then Pat poised her pencil above the Dutch warmblood. Carole felt her stomach turn with apprehension.

  “Gosh, this warmblood sounds like a beauty,” Pat remarked.

  “He sure does,” Carole said quietly.

  Pat chewed the end of her pencil. “Hmmm … ‘Imported,’ it says. ‘King’s Ransom’ … Costs a king’s ransom, I’ll bet!”

  “Gosh, I never thought of price,” Carole admitted, her face falling.

  “Heck, why should you? You’re not looking yourself,” said Pat.

  “Oh, I know,” Carole said hastily. “I mean—I never thought of price for you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Pat joked. “My husband will think plenty.” Her eyes scanned the page. “No price listed on the warmblood. Naturally. They never put the price when they’re asking a bundle. Well, we’ll give it a circle, anyway.”

  Carole didn’t stop to analyze why, but she was glad—glad that the warmblood got a circle instead of a star.

  WHENEVER STEVIE MADE cookies, half the batter ended up in her stomach. For her, half the point of making cookies was eating the batter. If you just wanted cookies, you could go to the store. Today she was making her favorite kind: oatmeal chocolate chip. Most people made oatmeal raisin, but Stevie knew better. In the first place, she detested raisins. Who wanted those icky, dried, chewy things in their cookies? If you wanted fruit, you could eat an apple! But straight chocolate chip cookies were almost too sweet. After a few you just couldn’t take the sugar. Better to moderate the sugar taste with something grainy like oatmeal. Adding oatmeal had two other advantages: One, it made the cookie sound healthful/nutritionally sound/after-school-snack-acceptable, which meant her mother would let her eat a lot more than if she thought they were a plain old tooth-rotting dessert. And two, the batter was the best!

  “Wanna lick the bowl?” Stevie asked Alex as he tore through the kitchen.

  Alex stopped dead. He drew himself up to his full height and gave his sister an appalled look. “Did I hear you correctly? Are you suggesting that I eat raw cookie dough?”

  “It is your favorite dessert,” Stevie reminded him, annoyed. She wasn’t going to let him get away with this health nut act.

  “Was my favorite dessert!” Alex retorted. “Before I saw the light! Before I began representing Fenton Hall in athletic competitions! Before I reduced my body mass index to a mere—”

  Alex ducked as Stevie chucked a wooden spoon at him.

  “Perhaps,” he continued, righting himself, “if you found a physical outlet for your rage, sister dear, you wouldn’t feel compelled—”

  “I’ll take up strangling!” Stevie growled, chasing him out of the kitchen.

  “Maybe you’d have a prayer of catching me if you did more than sit around baking all day!” Alex taunted.

  Back in the kitchen, Stevie asked, “Mom, do you think I’m out of shape?”

  Mrs. Lake looked up from stirring her sauce. “Don’t you have required sports at school?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I got out of sports this semester to be in a play,” Stevie said.

  “A play?” Mrs. Lake looked surprised.

  “Yeah,” said Stevie. “But then I didn’t get the part, so I got out of the play to do special choir.”

  “Oh.” Frowning, Mrs. Lake stared at the sauce. “Wait. Did you say choir?”

  “C’mon, Mom, I have been taking voice lessons. Anyway, I got out of it,” Stevie assured her. “To do sports.”

  “So you do get exercise at school?” asked Mrs. Lake, exasperated.

  Stevie shook her head. “No, I don’t. Remember, Mom? I said I got out of sports.”

  Mrs. Lake raised her eyes to the heavens. “When’s the last time you got any exercise?”

  Stevie opened the oven door and put two cookie sheets in to bake. “Well … I just scooped a bunch of cookies,” she said hopefully.

  “No, Stevie, I mean real exercise.”

  “Does riding count?”

  “I don’t know. Does it?”

  Stevie thought for a moment. She tried to be honest with herself. In a way she understood why riding got such a bad rap. Riding was one of those weird sports. It required a lot of different muscles; it required stamina. Anybody who tried it would ache for days afterward. But even if somebody rode every day for an hour, she wouldn’t be in shape to run five miles. Or even, necessarily, two miles. Sort of,” Stevie said finally.

  Mrs. Lake raised an eyebrow at her daughter. She was a high-powered attorney in Washington, D.C., and this was her high-powered-attorney look. Stevie knew that look well. It said: Until you make up your mind, I can be of no further help to you.

  “I’ll think about it, Mom,” Stevie amended.

  “Good,” said the attorney. “Now pass over that bowl for me to lick.”

  “ALL RIGHT,” SAID Pat Naughton, “then I’ll see you Monday at ten.” She snapped her cellular phone closed and flopped down onto a bench next to Carole. “Gosh, you’d think these people didn’t want to sell their horses, the way they fuss about setting up appointments.”

  “Maybe they’re afraid the horses won’t look right in a certain light,” Carole joked. She had cleaned and oiled her tack but was lingering to talk with Pat. Pat seemed to like having her there. Every time the woman made an appointment to look at a horse, she would ask Carole if she thought the horse was worth seeing.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Pat said. “I’ve been looking so long that nothing surprises me.”

  “Have you seen anything good?” Carole asked.

  Pat nodded. “There’s a mare in Pleasantville I like a lot, but she’s a little old—fifteen. I’d be worried about her slowing down in a few years. You know,” she added, tapping one of the ads she had marked, “I don’t know about this gelding. I gave him a star, but he almost sounds too quiet. The owner kept emphasizing what a great beginner horse he’d make.”

  “Hmmm,” Carole mused. “That could mean safe and reliable. On the other hand, it could mean that he has trouble getting out of a trot. You just never know till you see them, do you?”

  “Nope,” agreed Pat. She ran a manicured hand through her blond hair. Carole noticed that she wore a large diamond ring and an expensive-looking watch. Some people—most people—Carole would have criticized for wearing jewelry in the barn. But Pat was so nice and friendly that Carole found herself admiring the woman’s style. It was kind of horsey chic. And her enthusiasm was catching.

  “I keep trying to explain that to my husband. He says, ‘Why don’t you just pick one!’ He grew up in the city, so he can’t help it.” Pat laughed. “He knows as much about horses as I do about the stock market. Nada!”

  “My dad was the same way,” Carole said, giggling at the memory. “Don’t worry—he’ll get better once you actually own a horse.”

  “I hope so,” said Pat. “I just wish I had someone to consult, to take with me on these horse-shopping excursions. If Max were around … But he’s too busy, anyway.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, I’d better make this last call and then get going. My baby-sitter’s probably run away by now.”

  “Um … Pat?” Carole said quickly. “I’d go with you to look at horses. I mean,” she added, feeling shy, “if you think it would help.”

  “Help? Are you kidding? It would be great!” Pat said. “Are you sure you have the time?”

  “Sure,” said Carole. “I’m on vacation.”

  “Well, fabulous! I’ve got appointments all Monday morning.”

  “All morning? That’s fine. That’s perfect,” said Carole, thinking fast. She could go with Pat in the morning, then ride Starlight in the afternoon.

  “Gosh, this is wonderful. I’ll feel so much better with you there. Okay: last call.” Pat whipped out her cellular phone again and dialed a number. “Yes, I’m calling about King’s Ransom.…”

  Carole felt herself stiffen.

  “Uh-huh.… How about Monday afternoon? About three?
Great.… No, I’m not a beginner, but until last year I hadn’t ridden seriously since I was fifteen.… Yes, yes, I love dressage.” Pat rolled her eyes as she answered several more questions. Carole listened attentively, wondering what could be taking so long.

  “That’s a new one!” Pat exclaimed when the call had ended. “The owner was interviewing me.”

  “Really?” said Carole.

  “Yes—to see if I’d be a worthy purchaser for her amazing horse! I’ll bet it’s just another selling technique.” Shaking her head, Pat stood up. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a key chain. “Say, do you need a ride somewhere? I’ve got my car outside.”

  Carole accepted happily. She followed Pat out to the driveway. It was strange: She couldn’t decide whether or not she was glad they were going to see King. (In her head she had already nicknamed King’s Ransom.) Part of her wished he would stay an advertisement in Horseman’s Weekly, but part of her was excited at the chance to see a horse like that up close. Maybe he’ll be too expensive or Pat won’t like him, she thought. And then … But there was no ending to that thought. And as she climbed into Pat’s sports car, Carole had to admit that despite what she had said, her new friend probably had the money to buy any horse she liked.

  “I just realized something,” Pat remarked, backing out of the parking space. “I made the last appointment for three in the afternoon. Is that going to be too long a day for you?”

  “Oh, no,” Carole said hastily. “It’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Pat said. “Because if you want, I could drop you off after the morning round and then go see this King’s Ransom myself.”

  “No, really,” Carole insisted, “I’ll come along.” Mentally she rescheduled the afternoon. If she got back at five, she could still take a quick ride. Then again, she thought, it wasn’t as if there were a law about riding every day.…

  STEVIE GROANED, THREW back the covers, and got out of bed: Monday, 9:00 A.M. No more pretending she didn’t hear that alarm ringing. Today she was turning over a new leaf. She had spent Sunday lying in bed. Today she was going to get to Pine Hollow early and get it over with. Groom, ride, groom, and be back home by noon. Then she could spend the afternoon doing what she wanted to do: baking, watching TV, lying on the sofa half-asleep—in other words, enjoying vacation.