Mrs. Atwood seemed ready to argue about that, but at that moment they passed a road sign reading WELCOME TO COLESFORD. “Oh, good,” she said. “We’re almost there. I don’t want to be late.”
Lisa leaned back against the car seat and sighed again. She glanced out the window at the sky, which was gray and cloudy. It matched her mood quite well, she decided.
A few minutes later her father was turning down a road that Mrs. Atwood had pointed out. Before long the car was pulling into a long, gently curving driveway leading to a large, whitewashed brick house.
“What a stunning home,” Mrs. Atwood murmured.
Lisa didn’t see anything stunning about it. It didn’t look much different from the houses in their own neighborhood. Just bigger. But she didn’t say anything.
As they stood on the front porch ringing the doorbell, Mrs. Atwood tugged at the back of Lisa’s sweater, straightening the hem. “I wish you had taken my advice and braided your hair, dear,” she whispered. “It would look much neater and more stylish that way, don’t you think?”
The door opened before Lisa could answer. A girl about Lisa’s age was standing there. “Hello,” she said. “You must be the Atwoods.”
“And you must be Marguerite,” Mrs. Atwood said. She introduced herself, her husband, and Lisa. The whole time, Lisa could see her eyes traveling from the top of the girl’s French-braided hair to the toes of her polished high boots, taking in a stylish wool sweater and a pair of spotlessly clean buff breeches along the way.
“Nice to meet you,” the girl said. “Won’t you come in? My mother is expecting you.”
Lisa gave the other girl a weak smile as she trooped inside the house with the rest of her family. She was still trying to be optimistic. She really was. But it was getting harder every second.
“… SO I TOLD HER, I’m sorry, but I just don’t give money to causes like that,” Mrs. Mills said. “I donate to several respected charities on a regular basis, and I do quite a bit of volunteer work, if I do say so myself. I can’t be expected to support every cause.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Atwood said emphatically. “You do so much for the community as it is.”
Lisa couldn’t help grimacing. She leaned over her sherbet dish to hide her expression. The “cause” Mrs. Mills was talking about was an elementary-school girl selling candy bars door-to-door to raise money for new soccer uniforms. Lisa didn’t think it would have hurt the woman to have bought a few. And whether she had or not, the topic certainly didn’t seem to warrant a ten-minute discussion.
“Oh, let it go, Mother,” Marguerite said, dipping her spoon into her sherbet. “You’re just mad because that little brat’s mother turned out to be on the school board and she told everyone you wouldn’t contribute.”
Mrs. Mills shot her daughter a venomous look. “Mind your manners, Marguerite,” she said icily.
Mrs. Atwood leaned toward Lisa. “That goes for you, too, young lady,” she whispered. “Stop hunching over your food like that.”
Lisa sat up straight and glared at her mother. Would this lunch never end? Trying not to think about all the fun her friends were probably having back at Pine Hollow right then, she stirred her sherbet idly with her spoon and glanced at Marguerite out of the corner of her eye. Mrs. Mills had done most of the talking so far, so Lisa still wasn’t really sure what the other girl was like.
Just then Marguerite turned toward Lisa. “So I’ll bet you can’t wait to see Fox Crest, right?” she said with a smile.
Lisa smiled back tentatively. “Sure,” she said. This seemed promising. Maybe Marguerite was okay after all.
Mrs. Mills was nodding. “Oh, yes,” she said complacently. “You’ll love Fox Crest, Lisa. It’s really a high-quality establishment. Marguerite tells me they have some beautiful horses, and, of course they cater to a very exclusive clientele.”
Lisa glanced at Marguerite, expecting to see her roll her eyes, just as she would have done if her own mother had made a similarly shallow comment. But Marguerite was nodding in agreement.
“Definitely,” she said. “I tried riding at another stable for a while, but it was awful. They let anybody who walked in off the street ride there, even if they showed up in ratty old jeans.”
Lisa blushed and tried not to look down at her own jeans. They weren’t exactly ratty and old. Compared to Stevie’s jeans, which Stevie tended to wear until they fell apart, Lisa’s looked practically brand-new. But Lisa had a feeling that the distinction would be lost on Marguerite.
Mrs. Mills cleared her throat meaningfully, and Marguerite suddenly glanced over at Lisa. She blushed, too. “Oops!” she said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lisa. I didn’t mean anything by that. Really. Um, actually, I was just admiring your jeans a moment ago. Where did you buy them? I might get a pair myself.”
“I got them at the mall in Willow Creek,” Lisa said. “I don’t remember which store.”
Mrs. Atwood broke in. Her face was brighter red than either Lisa’s or Marguerite’s. “I remember, dear,” she said, obviously trying to sound cheerful. “It was that little boutique, wasn’t it? Nouveau Style.”
“Um, maybe,” Lisa said. She knew very well that her jeans hadn’t come from the expensive store her mother had mentioned. But she also knew that her mother was trying to save face in front of the Millses.
“Well!” Mrs. Mills said, in a too-bright, too-loud tone that meant she was trying to change the subject. “It looks as though everyone is finished. Shall we move into the sitting room?”
IT SEEMED LIKE hours later that the adults dropped off Lisa and Marguerite at the stable. Actually, Lisa thought, they had probably sat in the Millses’ sitting room for only about twenty minutes.
By now, Lisa was sure that she and Marguerite Mills had very little in common. She had never met anyone as silly, shallow, and snobby as Marguerite—unless it was Marguerite’s mother.
Even Veronica diAngelo can’t hold a candle to those two, Lisa thought as she climbed out of the Millses’ luxury sedan. Then she felt guilty. Marguerite might not be Lisa’s idea of a good time, but at least she didn’t seem mean and scheming like Veronica. Probably because she’s not smart enough, a little voice in Lisa’s head piped up before she could stop it.
Lisa pushed all such uncharitable thoughts out of her mind as she followed Marguerite up a long landscaped drive toward a low, elegantly designed building.
“This is it,” Marguerite said, sounding pleased. “Fox Crest Farms.” She indicated the building with a sweep of her hand.
Lisa paused to take in the view. Just beyond the stable building she saw a gently rolling pasture where several sleek, healthy-looking horses were grazing. There was a mounting block near the front entrance to the building, and a man in formal riding attire was mounting a tall, strapping bay horse. Even with the sun still hiding behind the clouds, Lisa had to admit that it made a very pretty picture.
“It looks great,” she said sincerely.
Marguerite smiled. “I know,” she said. “Just wait until you meet the people. My friend Shannon will probably be here later—she has a full-blooded Arabian. And my friend Jack might be here, too. His parents own half the shopping malls on the East Coast. He rides a Thoroughbred.”
Lisa couldn’t resist speaking up. “I ride a Thoroughbred back at Pine Hollow,” she said. “Her name is Prancer. She’s really sweet and eager to please, and she—”
“Did I mention my friend Kelton?” Marguerite interrupted. She didn’t even seem to realize that Lisa had spoken. “His dad’s a senator, and Kelton has two horses: a Hanoverian and a Morgan.”
Lisa didn’t see why one boy needed two horses. After all, he could only ride one at a time. But she didn’t say so. In fact, she gave up entirely on talking and just followed along quietly as Marguerite continued to reel off a list of her friends and their purebred horses.
Her monologue got a little easier to take once they entered the stable building and Lisa could see the horses herself. She didn’t thi
nk she had ever seen so many beautiful horses in one place. Every single one seemed to be a purebred of one kind or another. More importantly, every one appeared well cared for and healthy.
As Marguerite led her on a quick tour, Lisa saw that the stable itself was a little smaller than Pine Hollow, but it was just as spotlessly clean. And Lisa knew that her mother would consider it a lot more elegant. Every stall had a large, polished brass nameplate by the door. The tack room had cedar-lined walls and fancy saddle racks. The people they passed were all dressed to the nines—even the ones Marguerite pointed out as stable boys.
After a while Lisa realized that she still hadn’t asked Marguerite about her own horse. She quickly did so.
Marguerite smiled. “We’re just getting to her stall.” She hurried down the aisle they were in and paused beside a stall door. “Here she is. This is my horse, Amber.”
Lisa looked into the stall and gasped. The horse inside was gorgeous. Amber was a light bay mare, about sixteen hands tall, with a refined head and lively, soulful eyes. She turned and gave Lisa a curious, intelligent glance, then returned to her previous occupation of picking at the hay in her hayrack.
“Do you like her?” Marguerite said complacently. “She’s a purebred Trakehner. Those come from Germany, you know. In Europe.”
Lisa knew that the Trakehner was a breed from Germany. As a matter of fact, she also knew that Germany was in Europe. But she kept quiet. She was busy looking at the horse. Amber was amazing.
For the first time, Lisa started to feel a little more positive about the day. She was starting to think that spending an afternoon riding one of these impeccably bred creatures could be pleasant.
“She’s wonderful,” she told Marguerite sincerely, reaching out to pat Amber’s soft nose. “So, are you ready to ride?”
“Sure,” Marguerite said. She headed toward the tack room.
Lisa followed silently for a few steps. She couldn’t wait to find out which horse would be hers. Finally she cleared her throat. “Um, so who will I be riding today?”
Marguerite stopped short and gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!” she cried. “I knew there was something I forgot.”
“What do you mean?” Lisa asked, confused.
Marguerite spun around and hurried down the hallway in the other direction, toward the offices she had pointed out earlier. “I’m so sorry, Lisa. I forgot to arrange a horse for you.” She tossed Lisa an abashed grin over one shoulder. “But don’t worry. I’m sure we can scrounge up something.”
LISA SIGHED AND glanced up as she prepared to mount. “Okay, Tiny,” she said. “Here we go.”
The mare didn’t respond to her name. Lisa didn’t blame her. It wasn’t exactly appropriate. Tiny was a large, heavy gray horse, swaybacked and slow-moving.
“Um, I didn’t notice Tiny on the tour you gave me,” Lisa said, trying to be tactful. She mounted, feeling her leg muscles stretch a bit. Tiny was a lot broader across the back than slender, athletic Prancer.
Marguerite shrugged. “I know,” she said. “Her stall’s way in the back. They don’t like to keep her where people will see her. She’s not exactly up to par with the other horses here, you know.”
Lisa nodded, but she gave Tiny a quick pat, too. Tiny looked around and snorted as if in appreciation.
Lisa knew better than to write off a horse because of its appearance. Just because Tiny wasn’t a gorgeous purebred like the other Fox Crest horses—and clearly not challenging enough for a good rider like Lisa—that didn’t mean she was useless. “She must be handy for new riders,” she commented.
“You’re kidding, right?” Marguerite laughed. “Nobody here would be caught dead on a horse like that. The only reason Tiny’s here is because someone donated her as a tax write-off. She’s so slow and dull that they take her along to shows and stuff to keep the other horses calm.” She glanced over at Lisa as she swung aboard Amber, who was prancing and snorting and seemed full of energy. “I’m really sorry you’re stuck riding her, Lisa. My mom is going to kill me when she finds out. But Mr. Keit said there just wasn’t any other horse available right now.”
“It’s okay.” Lisa settled her feet firmly in the stirrups and gathered her reins, preparing to start. Tiny was standing still, her head drooping. Every once in a while she let out a snort or a whinny, responding to things around her. Lisa smiled as the big horse nickered at a passing bird. “At least she’s chatty.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.” She sent Amber into a fast walk.
“Lead the way!” Lisa said, trying to sound cheerful. She signaled for Tiny to walk, and for a second the mare seemed reluctant to move.
Lisa was more than a little annoyed, though it had nothing to do with Tiny’s laziness. She knew that none of this was the sweet old mare’s fault. If Marguerite had done what she was supposed to, Lisa could have been riding a horse much more suited to her ability.
A strange, nagging feeling came over her as she followed the other girl out of the stable yard. She urged Tiny into a ponderous trot to keep up with Amber’s brisk walk. Something was bothering Lisa, but she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then she realized what it was. She missed the lucky horseshoe.
The lucky horseshoe was a Pine Hollow tradition. It was nailed to the wall by the stable door, and Lisa, like all the riders at Pine Hollow, was always careful to touch it before setting out. No rider who had done so had ever been seriously hurt.
“Oh, well,” Lisa whispered to Tiny, keeping her voice low so that Marguerite wouldn’t overhear. “I should know better than to expect any good luck around here.”
Tiny nickered and glanced back toward the stable building. Lisa smiled and gave her another pat. She could tell that the old mare didn’t want to be out there any more than she did. Then Lisa glanced up at the sky. Maybe Tiny and I will get lucky after all, she thought hopefully as she saw still more gray clouds gathering at the horizon. It looks like it’s going to pour pretty soon. Then Tiny can get back to her hayrack, and I can get back to Pine Hollow early!
“I’M STARTING TO wonder if Tate is ever going to ride with our class,” Stevie grumbled. She and Carole were at Calypso’s stall. The Horse Wise meeting and the girls’ jump lesson had both come and gone, and there had been no sign of the new boy. The girls were on their way to the grain shed to mix the feed for the next week, but they had stopped by to see the pregnant mare first.
Carole could tell that Stevie was disappointed because Tate hadn’t shown up. She had to admit, she was a little disappointed, too. But she was also relieved. Whenever the new boy was around, she felt kind of awkward. She wasn’t sure whether that had anything to do with Tate himself or whether it was purely a result of Stevie’s matchmaking. She decided it was time to change the subject. “The Horse Wise meeting was fun, wasn’t it? Belle seemed to catch on quickly to what you were asking her to do.”
Stevie’s eyes lit up. “She did do well, didn’t she?” she said. “Even Max said—”
Carole never got to hear what Max had said. Stevie was staring past her down the aisle, grinning widely. “What is it, Stevie?” Carole asked, turning to look.
“Hi there!” Tate called, walking toward them. “How’s it going?”
“Tate!” Stevie exclaimed. “We’re so glad you’re here. We need your help. Max asked us to mix grain this week, and usually Lisa helps us, but she’s not here today. We could really use an extra set of hands. How about it?”
Tate looked a little surprised, but he shrugged agreeably. “Boy, Max really is a slave driver, isn’t he?” he said with a laugh. “Sure, I’ll help you out.”
Carole gave Calypso one last pat, then followed as the others headed down the aisle toward the feed shed. After a moment, Stevie dropped back and gave her a conspiratorial wink.
“What do you think?” she whispered. “This will give you some quality time to get to know each other. Especially if I have to step out for a while to go to the bathroo
m …”
“Don’t!” Carole whispered back, her eyes widening.
Stevie just grinned, winked again, and hurried forward after Tate.
“… AND THEN THERE’S wood shavings,” Tate said happily, leaning back against a large sack of alfalfa pellets. “They’re easy to find, and mucking out isn’t a problem as long as you have a scoop and a shavings fork. They’re comfortable, too, and most horses won’t try to eat them. However, it’s best to avoid oak shavings. There’s tannic acid in oak, and that can be damaging to a horse’s hooves. Then there’s sawdust.…”
Carole sighed and scooped out another batch of bran to add to the mix she and Stevie were working on. Tate had been going on and on about stalls and bedding for what seemed like forever. Carole hadn’t thought she could ever get tired of hearing about horses, but now she was beginning to wonder.
She was also beginning to wonder about Tate. Didn’t he notice that neither she nor Stevie had spoken for at least ten minutes? Didn’t he care? Or did he care more about showing off what he knew than talking to them? It also hadn’t escaped Carole’s notice that Tate wasn’t helping much with the grains. Still, that might have been partly Stevie’s fault. She had insisted on making Tate sit on a stack of empty burlap bags next to Carole, where he couldn’t reach any of the ingredients except the barley. Since Max’s feed mix didn’t use much barley, Tate didn’t have much to do.
“What’s going on in here?” an unpleasant voice demanded.
Carole was startled out of her thoughts. She looked up and saw Veronica standing in the doorway of the grain shed, her hands on her hips and a suspicious expression on her face.
Tate grinned at her. “Hey, Veronica,” he said. “How’s it going?”
Veronica’s expression quickly changed to a big smile. “Hello, Tate,” she cooed. “I didn’t know you were in here.”
Yeah, right, Carole thought with disgust. She was sure that Veronica had known exactly where Tate was. Otherwise, why would she have bothered to come out to the grain shed?
Horse Care Page 5