by Jessie Haas
A fiery-looking horse was being led out of a stall. As the rider mounted, the crimson curtain billowed, and the horse clattered away in a high-stepping canter.
Missy said, “Can you imagine what Barney’d do here?”
“He’d be on the moon by now,” said Sarah. “And so would you!”
At the end of the stable row they smelled french fries and cotton candy, and they could hear an announcer’s voice.
“This’ll be the Pleasure Class for riders eleven and younger, coming up next. Riders in the ring, please.”
Sarah and Missy came around the end of a trailer and found themselves out in the hot sun again, next to a white-railed show-ring. Several riders were circling. “God,” Missy said. “Look at the makeup!”
The girl riding down the rail toward them wore a pink coat and a pale gray hat. A pink spot, matching the coat, blazed on each cheek. Her eyes were heavily mascaraed, and her lips glistened.
The girl’s chestnut mare minced along, twitching her feet high and gaining remarkably little ground. She snapped her teeth as she walked.
“These are supposed to be Pleasure horses?”
“Yup. Later there’ll be Classic Pleasure. That’s where they look like Morgans and they’re actually a pleasure to ride. This is the new improved version.”
“How do they improve them?” Sarah asked.
“They breed for the highest action, or they work them in chains, or both.”
The riders circled. Their mascaraed eyes moved constantly between the ringmaster and the nearest horse, as each rider tried to nerve and position herself for the call to trot.
“And trot, please, ordinary trot!” The announcer’s last word was swallowed by a sudden burst of music, a merry-go-round version of “Puff the Magic Dragon.”
“Yuck,” said Missy. Sarah just stared. She didn’t like this way of riding, sitting on the back of a flat saddle with your legs stuck out, and she didn’t like the way the horses moved, up and down instead of forward. Many were nervous, and some seemed to remember the chain anklets all too well. But as they circled, the pink and red and dark coats bobbing up and down, the necks arched, the manes flying, it did look just like a merry-go-round.
The music dimmed for a second. “Road trot!” said the announcer. The music got louder and faster, and the horses went faster, too.
“I don’t think I’d still be on board,” Sarah said, watching the tight faces bob past.
“Me either. Can you imagine taking one of these horses out on the trail?”
But even Missy had to admit that the horses were good. Not one bucked or kicked a neighbor, and not one actually ran away, all things Sarah had seen at the little 4-H horse show. They took care of their riders, the way good horses do.
“Let’s go,” Missy said.
Sarah turned away from the ring half-reluctantly. She hated to admit that she was enjoying this; the smell of cotton candy and the merry-go-round music. It all seemed so pretty and unreal.
Unreal. She had about as much chance of owning a Morgan as she did of owning a giraffe. The atmosphere of expense and unreality made that much clear.
“French fries?” Missy asked. “My treat.” She looked at Sarah’s glum face. “What’s up?”
Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re just so—”
“Look, you’re not gonna get a horse like that!”
“But I wanted one! I wanted a Morgan!”
“Look—here, eat your fries! Sarah, in the first place you couldn’t touch one of those horses on your budget. You couldn’t afford one hoof of a horse like that. In the second place you don’t want one. You want a real Morgan!”
“Well, where is one?”
“Over here.” Missy towed Sarah around the end of the bleachers onto the huge infield of the track. “Back there is where they show. Here is where they do, and you want a doer. There!”
A bay mare passed them, pulling a wooden two-wheeled cart. Her stride was clear and active and strong, her head naturally high. She wasn’t big, but her proud neck made her look so and gave her a noble air.
“Oh!”
“See? You probably couldn’t afford her either, but who knows? You could buy a good, average Morgan and work with it, and you could show here. Back there”—Missy jerked her thumb toward the carousel music—”the most expensive horse usually wins. Money’s what it’s all about. But in the normal horse world you don’t have to be a millionaire. You just have to work harder!”
They were between the carriage-driving area and the dressage ring. A maze of orange road cones had been set up in pairs, just wide enough for the wheels of the carts to pass between. A tennis ball was balanced on top of each cone, and a woman was driving around the course at a brisk trot. She didn’t knock off a single ball.
“Or here. Look at this one.”
A tall black dressage horse was being warmed up. He did shoulder-in and half-pass with perfect ease and rhythm. Enchanted, Sarah watched the flashing pairs of legs. Then she heard a clatter of hooves on wood behind her and turned to see the driving horse rattle over a little bridge and swing around for the last set of cones. Beyond him on the track a high-stepping show horse was being ridden bareback by a girl in a T-shirt and jeans, both figures tiny and perfect in the distance. A horse was being driven in a fancy show cart, another was being lunged, and two more walked quietly, heads low and bodies covered with cooling sheets. From this distance Sarah could see the distinct Morgan shape of every one of them.
“This is where it’s beautiful,” she said.
When Sarah got home late in the afternoon, dazzled with horses and headachy from too much sun, Goldy was in the kitchen.
She’d been allowed inside when she was a kid, but now she was a fat yearling goat and, according to Mom, too big for indoors. Sarah didn’t see why. Goldy was as tall as Star and nowhere near as wide. But there was no denying she didn’t have good house manners. There was a puddle and a scattering of buttons on the floor, and Goldy was helping herself to cereal from a box she’d knocked out of the cupboard.
“Dad?” Sarah called. “Dad, what’s Goldy doing in here?” But she already knew: She’d been so busy calling Jill this morning, and so eager to get out of here, she’d forgotten to lock Goldy in.
Dad appeared from the direction of the living room, marking his place in a book with one finger. “She was eating the lilac bush.”
“Did she get in the garden?”
“I don’t think so.” Dad looked vaguely at the puddle and the buttons. “I was going to take her out …”
Sarah pressed her lips firmly together, feeling just like Mom. Before Dad was a full-time writer, back when he had a real job, he had seemed like a normal person. Now he was no use to anybody half the day.
Well, before, he used to be gone all day, Sarah reminded herself, looking at the clock. Half an hour till Mom got home. She grabbed Goldy by the collar.
“Come on, bad goat, out to the barn.”
Several of the flowers lining the path to the front door had been beheaded. Goldy reached down for one more. Sarah hauled on her collar, but Goldy wouldn’t let go, and the petunia snapped off close to the ground. Sarah groaned and tugged her along. She could only hope Mom wouldn’t remember exactly how many flowers she’d had in that spot.
She was just putting the mop away when Mom pulled into the yard, and the floor was still wet.
“Is that goat locked up again?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” Sarah said. How did Mom know?
“Tomorrow,” Mom said, “before you go anywhere or do anything, I want you to fix that fence!”
“Okay.” Where did Mom think she was going to go, anyway, and what did Mom think she was going to do? A six-mile trot on Herky was the only event scheduled for tomorrow. But the next day or the day after that …
“I’ll get it fixed,” Sarah said, making her voice more cheerful. Heaven forbid she should get Mom mad at her now!
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rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1982 by Jessie Haas
Cover design by Jessie Hayes
ISBN: 978-1-4976-6257-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
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