James followed on his dapple-gray Arab filly. DJ shook her head in disgust. If she had a horse like that, she’d sure find it easier to smile than he did.
If James had been one of her students, she would have told him to keep his back straight, his chin up, and his heels down. But he wasn’t, and the last time she had made a suggestion—well, James had made it clear that he didn’t take suggestions—or even orders—from anyone. When DJ had told Gran about the situation, she had said James really needed a friend.
“He can find someone else,” DJ muttered, turning back to the barn. She could clean tack until Amy finished her lesson. Rubbing saddle soap into the leathers of a saddle required no brain power, leaving her mind free to explore the challenges of the Olympic long course. Cross country was the most difficult. She and Diablo would jump clean all the way around with the fastest time ever clocked. First the triple jump, then the brush, then over a water jump . . .
“You ready to go home or what?” The tone of Amy’s voice indicated she’d asked the question before.
DJ jerked herself back to reality. The saddle she was soaping up had some shine to it.
Her pumping legs slowed when she pedaled from Amy’s house to her own. Now she had to ask for money for the class entry fees. Maybe she should take it out of her horse account. But Gran had promised she would pay the entrance fees. All DJ had to do was ask.
DJ smiled. Why not require a signature in blood or a week of hard time digging in the backyard? Maybe she should offer to clean the kitchen every night without grumping. Not grumbling was the key. Even scrubbing toilets was better than doing dishes. DJ parked her bike carefully in the garage. Nothing fried her mother like something out of place.
Gran was so different from her mom. All Gran said to do was ask. She also told DJ to ask God when she needed something. DJ did remember to ask God for the most important things—at least some of the time. Like winning Olympic gold. It just didn’t seem fair to bother God with the little things. She chewed on her thumbnail as she walked through the back door.
“Gran?”
“In the studio.”
DJ padded through the living room and out to her grandmother’s studio. In a normal family’s home, it would have been the family room. Gran, a highly successful illustrator, stood in front of her easel, brush in hand and head cocked, studying her latest work.
“What do you think?”
DJ looked from the whimsical forest creatures dancing on the canvas to her grandmother dressed in matching hot pink shorts and tank top, both liberally decorated with bright dabs of paint. “The painting is awesome, like always, and you have yellow paint on your chin.”
“No biggie.” The artist stepped forward and applied two more brushstrokes to the fawn, bringing his spotted coat to life. “There, I’ll leave it till tomorrow. I actually think it’s done.”
DJ sank into the stuffed rocker, her feet trailing over the arm. “Gran?”
“What, my darling?” The voice sounded vague, as if Gran were still off in the forest with her creatures.
DJ drew a circle around the puckered scar on her left palm. The words wouldn’t come. “When’s Mom coming home?”
“Tomorrow night. Why?” Gran continued setting her paints in order. Other things might be left scattered around, but her paints and brushes were always cleaned and organized when she finished for the day.
“I need—ah—Gran, I need money for entry fees.” The words stumbled over each other in their rush to reach air.
“Of course, why the hesitation? All you have to do is ask.” Gran turned around, hands on her rounded hips. “How much do you need and by when?”
The whoosh leaving DJ’s lungs set the folded paper swans attached to a twisted branch dancing on their threads. She named the amount.
“Check or cash?” Gran wiped the wisps of salt-and-pepper hair—heavy on the salt—back from her forehead. A puzzled look flitted across her face. “Did you have lunch? I don’t think I did. What time is it anyway?” While she talked she dug in her huge satchel-style purse and pulled out a battered billfold. She wrote and handed DJ a check.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“You pay me back just by being yourself and helping when I ask. Working to pay for your own lessons is a big help. Besides, when was the last time I had to take out the garbage or mow and water the yard?” She threw her arm over DJ’s shoulder and squeezed. “I just thank God I have money to give you.”
DJ ducked her head, suddenly shy. That was her Gran all right. Always thankful for everything. But she would pay her back somehow.
Right after dinner, Gran buried her head in a book.
DJ climbed the stairs to her bedroom. This was the best time of day to draw. DJ’s own pictures of horses filled her walls. Charcoal or pencil foals, Arabs, and jumpers surrounded the colored Olympic poster.
She piled her pillows against the headboard, propped her drawing board on her knees, and leaned back, waiting for inspiration to strike. Her pencil began to move as if controlled by some unseen force. Later, her drawing finished, she fell asleep with horses on her mind, the main one a fiery sorrel sporting a startling white diamond in the center of his forehead.
DJ rode out to the Academy by herself in the morning. Amy would be coming later. Her whistle set all the horses nickering as she jogged down the sandy aisle toward the red gelding’s stall.
But Diablo didn’t answer her whistle. His stall gate stood open, hooked to the side wall. All of his gear had been cleared out. Even the shavings had been swept away, leaving nothing but bare black dirt. DJ felt her happiness escape with a whoosh. Diablo was gone.
CHAPTER • 2
“Bridget! Diablo’s missing!” DJ stopped to get her breath.
“Easy, girl.” The trainer pushed her chair back from the desk. She checked the round clock on the wall. “I had hoped to see you before you . . .”
“But you don’t understand. His stall is empty, even the shavings are gone. Did you move him?” The words tumbled over each other, picking up speed like rocks in a landslide.
“DJ, I know.” Bridget pointed to one of the well-bruised chairs by her desk. “Sit.”
“But . . .”
“Sit!” The command cracked through the stillness.
DJ did as ordered. She dug one chewed-off fingernail into the edge of her thumb. Visions of Diablo lying dead in the stall—or running away over the hills—raced through her mind.
“Now, I have bad news for you. You knew the Ortegas were coming last night to see Diablo?”
“Sure, I bathed him and everything so they would see I was taking good care of their horse.” The desire to chew on her thumbnail made her raise her hand partway to her mouth. But, instead, she gripped one with the other and glued them to her knees.
“They came with a trailer and took him. They are moving and have a new stable lined up for him.”
“Where did they go?” Instantly, her eyes burned. Her heart felt heavy. “Where did they take him?”
“Out of state. Texas, I think.”
“So I won’t ever see him again?” DJ couldn’t have loved Diablo more if he’d been her own. How awful, not to see Diablo, not to ride him again, not to play with him in the corral.
Her shoulders slumped with the weight of the news. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
Bridget shook her head. “I didn’t know. Usually people give me thirty days’ notice—that’s what our contract stipulates—but they just showed up. Said they had to move quickly, something about his job.” She handed DJ an envelope. “Here, this is for you.”
DJ took it and slid her finger under part of the flap. “Ouch.” A paper cut opened a red line across the top of her finger. She finished opening the envelope and stuck her finger in her mouth to stop the bleeding. She looked up at Bridget, then dropped her gaze. The compassion in her mentor’s eyes was too much for her to handle.
DJ pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Classic penmanship made it easy to read. Dear DJ, p
lease accept this token of our appreciation for the fine job you’ve done with Diablo. His conditioning and training show how much you’ve cared for him. We thank you and wish you the best in your endeavors. Sincerely, Manuel Ortega. DJ unfolded the check.
“A hundred dollars.” She stared at the zeros. Counted them again. “Look.” She handed the check across the desk. “They gave me a hundred dollars.”
“You earned every penny of it.” Bridget handed it back with a smile. “That will help your horse fund.”
DJ stuffed the note and check back into the envelope. “I was hoping to buy Diablo from them someday.” The thought of never seeing her best friend again roared back.
Before DJ had more time to dwell on the bad news, Bridget pushed her chair back. “You better get Megs saddled and ready for your first jumping lesson. Our time is running out.” She nodded toward the clock.
“Yes, ma’am.” DJ jumped to her feet, stuffing the envelope in her pocket. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
She jogged across the dust-caked drive and back to the stables. Funny, the sun still shone and the birds sang. Maybe it was only her world that had stopped, not the one around her. Somewhere Diablo rode in a horse van, moving to his new home. Did he miss her as much as she already missed him?
She snagged a bucket with grooming gear, along with a jumping saddle and bridle, from the tack room and hustled down the long aisle. At least she didn’t have to pass Diablo’s empty stall. Megs, now retired from the show circuit but with a wealth of experience to teach her riders, hung her dark head out the stall door. She nickered when DJ came near, as did the other horses DJ ignored in her rush to ready the mare.
“Hi, girl.” DJ hung the saddle and bridle on the half door hooked open to the wall, and slipped the mare a carrot piece. She grabbed a brush from the bucket, shoved the handle of the currycomb in her back pocket, and ducked under the web to begin the quickest grooming this side of tomorrow. Within minutes she had the mare brushed down and the tack in place. If one of her students had done that haphazard a job, she’d have made her redo it.
“I’ll give you a really good brushing afterward,” she promised as she led the Anglo-Arab bay mare down the aisle. “Then I’ll turn you out for a while. How does that sound?” Megs clopped along beside her, ears pricked, head down as if hoping for a quick stroke now and then.
Once in the ring, DJ walked the mare around the outside, loosening her up even though they would be jumping only the lowest rails today. One thing Bridget drilled into her students and staff alike was that you could never be too careful with your horse. Not warming up enough led to strains and poor performance. A horse was like any other finely tuned athlete—warm muscles stretched easily and were less likely to suffer an injury.
DJ worked the mare through her paces: walk, trot, and collected canter. The thrill of riding a well-schooled horse sent DJ’s mind instantly to the show-ring—and the Olympics. She jerked herself back to the present. If Bridget caught her daydreaming, she’d be grounded for sure.
Just as DJ was about to ask someone to fetch her instructor, Bridget entered the ring. She walked to each of the four jumps and checked the rails, all set at the lowest peg.
“Ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.” DJ had watched enough classes and videos to know what was coming. She squeezed her lower legs to guide the mare over to the center of the ring. Even though she’d jumped before, this was her first official lesson.
“I hope you have not learned any bad habits that we have to undo. Let me see you in your two-point trot, keeping the pace over the cavalletti.” Bridget motioned to three parallel rails she had placed on the ground, spaced wide enough so the horse wouldn’t stumble.
After DJ completed several successful rounds, Bridget moved to the center of the ring. “Good. Now, keeping the same pace, bring her over this jump. Remember to rest your weight in your heels and to lean into the jump. When you settle back, return to the two point.”
Again, DJ did as asked, loving even the small moment of being airborne.
While DJ completed several circuits, Bridget lowered the rails on another jump and set the two in a straight line.
“Good, Megs. You’re so smooth.” DJ patted the mare’s neck.
“Now maintain the pace up to the first obstacle, then canter to the next. Count the number of strides and keep her going straight.”
Keep her between your hands and legs, DJ reminded herself. She had heard the instructions so many times before that she knew the routine, but making Megs do it exactly right wasn’t as easy as she’d thought. Invariably Megs drifted to the right.
“Pay attention, DJ. You are using too much left leg.”
DJ nodded but overcorrected, and Megs obediently swung to the right.
“You are trying too hard—just relax and forget we are in a class situation.”
DJ tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. She set the mare into another round: cavalletti, two point, jump. Going straight was much harder than she’d ever dreamed.
“No, keep the pace. Get yourself in balance before you reach the jump.”
DJ returned to the two point and completed the circle. Trot, jump, count one, two, three, four, five, and over. “Fiddle.”
“What was wrong there?”
“I needed six strides and I used five.”
“And got left behind?”
DJ nodded. Circle again. Jump, count, and jump. By the end of the hour, DJ could feel the pull in both her back and calves.
“You must keep her going straight. She has a tendency to pull to the left.”
“I know. I’m using too much right leg.”
“I know you know, so don’t let her. One more time around and we will call it a day.”
DJ concentrated on everything she’d been told. This time Megs jumped once, took six strides at a canter, made another jump, and headed straight toward the arena fence before dropping back to the trot. DJ rode a tight circle and met Bridget at the gate.
“I have always said you have a good seat,” Bridget commented when DJ stopped in front of her. “I know you would practice for hours if you could. Just do not neglect your other duties. You know which horses need the work. I will lay out a program for you if you like.”
“Thank you. Oh, thank you, Bridget! I can’t wait to try the big ones.” Visions of triple jumps, water jumps, brush jumps, and in-and-outs flew through her mind.
“In good time.” Bridget shared one of her rare smiles with her charge. “Now, you have stalls to clean and horses to work—after you cool out Megs, of course. Oh, and about the show. You know you may ride one of the school horses.”
DJ’s shoulders slumped. No Diablo to show meant no chance for a decent ribbon. She mentally ran through the stable horses. Only Megs would have a chance, and she was retired. Bridget would never change her mind on that.
“Thanks, but none of them are ready. I’ll help coach the beginners.” The thought of not competing in the better classes this summer made her groan. If only she had a horse of her own—then things like this wouldn’t happen. Now she had to prepare another horse, which also wouldn’t be her own. She clenched her teeth as a blaze of anger ripped through her.
Megs jigged to the side. “Sorry, girl.” DJ ordered her body to relax. There must be a connection between my knees and my jaw.
She looked up to catch a look from Bridget that clearly said, never take your personal problems out on your horse.
“I’m sorry.” DJ seemed to be saying that a lot. “I . . . I . . . what if I can’t show at all this summer?”
“Is that what is worrying you?” Bridget stepped close to Megs’ shoulder. “There will always be a horse here for you to ride. You just need to take the time to prepare one. I will talk with one of the owners. Mrs. Orlando might be pleased to have you show one of her horses.”
DJ started to ask which one, but thought the better of it. Early on she’d learned that when Bridget was ready to tell her something, she would. And as
king before that would not make her popular with the academy owner.
“Someday I’ll have a horse of my own.”
“Yes, I am sure you will.” Bridget laid a hand on DJ’s knee. “I know you will. Now, take care of the ones you can.” She patted Megs’ neck and walked out of the gate. Two people were waiting to talk with her outside the arena.
Feeling as if she were floating on a cloud, DJ nudged the mare into a trot. She had plenty of work to do.
Along with each shovelful of shavings and manure, she tossed out another moneymaking idea. She had to buy a horse of her own. But first she had to earn the money. Counting the check this morning, her total now stood at $189.89. If only she didn’t have to buy things like presents and give part of her earnings to Sunday school.
“I’m never going to a movie again,” she muttered, spreading the clean shavings she’d hauled in.
“What’s up?” Amy stopped with her wheelbarrow.
“The Ortegas moved away and took Diablo with them.”
“That’s why his stall is empty?”
“Yup. At least now I don’t have to spend Gran’s money for entry fees. I won’t be showing.”
“Not ever?”
“Don’t be dumb.” DJ leaned on her pitchfork. “Bridget says I can use school horses to show, but none of them are ready for Saturday.”
“You can use Josh.” Amy offered her most prized possession.
“Ames, you know that won’t work. Our classes are usually at the same time—besides, I’ve never ridden him in competition.” She looked deep into her friend’s eyes. “You’re the best. Thanks.”
“James isn’t here—again.” Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve had to do most of his work.”
“Again? What’s with him, anyway?”
“Wish I knew.” Amy picked up the handles of the barrow. “Gotta finish so I can work Josh. Hey, how did your lesson go?”
High Hurdles Page 2