It felt so good to be off her feet. Shelby sat there waggling her toes in the rain. She tilted her head back to catch some of the drops in her mouth.
When she was eight, Shelby had had her tonsils out. She remembered waking up some time after the operation, and discovering that the painkillers had worn off. Her throat felt huge and gluey, and it throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Her head had been dizzy and bleary with pain. At the time she believed it was the worst moment in her whole life.
Nope. This is the worst moment of my life, she thought. It can't get any worse than this.
12 Gully Way
Barefoot and soaked, it took Shelby at least an hour to walk out of the gully, giving her a new appreciation for the speed with which horses cover the ground. She would have been able to do it in ten minutes if she had been on Blue.
She walked along the cul-de-sac near her paddock and looked at the skeleton of the new house as she passed it. A blue and yellow portaloo had been dumped on the ground where, one day, a manicured lawn would be.
Let them build their dumb houses, she thought.
She opened the front door and shuffled along the hallway. The carpet felt soft and spongy under her feet.
Her mother was in the lounge room on her hands and knees picking up blocks of Lego and dropping them into the toy box.
'What happened to you?' she asked, when she saw Shelby's bedraggled state.
Shelby felt her lip quiver. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. 'It's been a bad day,' she whispered.
Her mother held open her arms and Shelby went to them.
'Never mind, honey,' her mother said, patting her forehead. 'How about I run you a bath?'
'I can't. I've got to go back out. I lost the new horse. She pulled away from me, and then a trail bike rider chased her along the trail, and now I don't know where she is.'
'I'll get my keys. Let's just hope the car will go.'
Shelby ran down the hall to fetch her sneakers and a dry tee-shirt.
'Cross fingers,' said Shelby's mother from the driver's seat. She pushed down on the accelerator and twisted the key. The engine rumbled into life. Her mother let out a sigh of relief.
As they backed out of the driveway, her mother reached across, resting her arm on the back of the passenger seat so that she could see behind the car. Shelby watched the shaky wipers slap the water away before more rain hammered the window.
Where would they even begin to look for Brat? This was not a four-wheel drive, and even if it were, Brat would run from the noise before they could see her. It was hopeless.
A DJ chattered away on the old fogey radio station that her mother liked to listen to.
It certainly is a wet one this afternoon, so be careful on those roads, if you're out there. We'll have our regular traffic update after this song.
First they drove back towards the paddock. Her mother took the car along the dirt road at the back of the houses to where it joined the trail. They peered through the windscreen down the track but couldn't see anything. The gully covered hundreds of acres of bushland. They may as well try to empty the ocean with a teacup.
Her mother turned the car around. 'Where else does the trail join a road?'
Shelby thought about it. 'Up near the Pony Club. There are two gates at the back of the stables, and a few more on the other side of the gully.'
If Brat had made it out of the gully at all, Shelby thought that was where she would be. The neighbourhood on the other side of the gully, where Erin and Hayley lived, was mostly big houses on small acreages. There were lots of horses in paddocks, and horse people too. If someone had seen Brat, they would have taken her in. Shelby hoped that if her mother drove around there, they would spot Brat wandering around in someone's paddock.
At the end of the road Shelby's mother flicked on the blinker and turned right. The car moved freely along the quiet suburban streets, but soon they came to the turn-off to Gully Way. Shelby could see traffic banked up on the crossroad.
Now it's time for the traffic, said the DJ. There's debris on the road at High Street and Station Street. There's been an accident on Watson Road. The accident on North Parade has now been cleared, but it's still pretty heavy around there, so try to avoid it. Talking about avoiding things, we've had reports that the horse is still loose, causing extensive delays on and around Gully Way, so steer clear of the area if you can.
Shelby and her mother gaped at each other.
Her mother looked ahead at the traffic, hitting the steering wheel in frustration. Shelby unclipped her seatbelt and opened the car door. She glanced at her mother.
'Go, go, go!' her mother urged.
All her muscles protested, but Shelby ignored them, pumping her arms in an effort to go that little bit faster. People peered at her curiously from inside their cars as she raced past them.
She reached the intersection, looked left and right, and crossed the road, skipping between the stopped cars. Ahead she could see the blue and red rotating lights of police cars lined up on either side of the road. Cars were bumper-to-bumper as far back as she could see. Horns were blaring as drivers lost their temper. Further back near the Pony Club exit she could see a few four-wheel drives with floats stopped in the traffic.
Shelby's heart sank. Pony Club was finished for the day and everybody would see her. They would all know that it was her horse. Shelby ran along the footpath against the flow of traffic. Now she could see people on the road – three police officers and about five others. They formed a ring around a big truck – all with their hands outstretched.
She's been hit.
All the images stored in her mind of meaty road kill flashed before her eyes in quick succession. Her stomach flopped over, and she stopped running, afraid that she might be sick.
Suddenly she saw Brat dart out from behind a truck. The reins were broken now and hung down from either side of her mouth. She held her injured foot up high underneath her, and hopped along the road on three legs.
She was alive. She was moving. The rush of relief was almost as powerful as the fear. Shelby's stomach pitched again, and she put her hand over her mouth.
The group of people slowly closed in on Brat. One of them was wearing tight yellow trousers – Mrs Hockings.
Fantastic. Before she just thought I was a bad rider. Now she thinks I'm a bad owner as well.
Another figure, smaller and slighter – Hayley Crook. A man seemed to be shouting orders. Shelby narrowed her eyes, trying to make out his features. It was Calvin Protheroe.
This was the worst moment in her life.
Shelby watched as Mr Protheroe stepped in, little by little, and grabbed one of the reins. Brat reared up on her hind legs. Mr Protheroe stepped to the side in a move as smooth as a pirouette, and tucked his body next to Brat's shoulder. He reached under her chin to grab hold of the other rein.
Brat dropped back down onto three legs again. Mr Protheroe tried to turn her but she resisted, jerking her head and pulling away from him. Mr Protheroe didn't fight her. He followed her along the road until she backed into the bonnet of a car. She surged forward again. Mr Protheroe twisted around and let her run, staying next to her shoulder the whole time.
Once they got to the side of the road she stopped. He stroked her neck until she was quiet, and then pulled his jumper from around his waist, throwing it over her face to cover her eyes. Brat stood still, her back legs splayed out and her sore leg tucked up tight beneath her chest.
Shelby was close now, maybe twenty metres away. Mr Protheroe glanced at her, frowned, and then looked away.
'Thank you, officer,' he called over his shoulder. Shelby could see the rain dripping from the end of his nose. The policeman moved forward to shake his hand. Mr Protheroe turned to Hayley.
'I'm assuming that you only have one horse on that float,' he said.
Hayley nodded.
'Let's load her quickly before the traffic picks up,' he said. Then he turned to Shelby and pointed at her. 'You. Get this saddle off.'
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Shelby moved forward and undid the buckles on the girth. 'Thank you so much,' she murmured.
Calvin Protheroe didn't reply. He waited until she had removed the saddle and then he led Brat towards the Crooks' float.
Mrs Crook steered onto the shoulder of the road. Hayley lowered the float tailgate. Shelby, with her poxy all-purpose saddle over one arm, limped down the road and watched as Mr Protheroe loaded Brat.
The traffic started to flow past. People in the cars craned their necks, staring at her.
Once Brat was safely stowed. Hayley climbed into the car. Mr Protheroe leaned in towards Mrs Crook's window. He had his jumper loosely draped over his shoulder.
'Yes, I think that would be best,' he said, nodding. He stood up straight again and tapped the roof. 'See you again,' he said.
He turned to face Shelby and she could see the fury in his eyes.
'Where are they taking her?' she asked.
'Somewhere safe,' he replied. 'I'm sure you will receive the vet bill, and hopefully a hefty fine, in due course. You should not have horses. I'm going to make it my business to ensure you don't have this one.'
Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Shelby stood still on the side of the road and watched as he got in his car and drove away without looking back.
13 Relief for the Mulligans
Shelby sat on the lounge in her pyjamas. Her mother had made cheese on toast while she was in the bath, but it sat, cold and rubbery, on the coffee table.
Mrs Crook had phoned to say that Brat was now dry and warm in Scamp's stable. The vet had been to check Brat's leg, and said it should mend without any problem, but she had to rest for a couple of days. Mrs Crook offered to keep Brat at the stables until she could walk soundly.
'You have to eat something,' Shelby's mother pleaded. 'I bet you haven't had anything all day.'
Shelby drew her feet up underneath her and shook her head. 'It's worse than you think,' she said.
Her mother patted her knee. 'We've had a vet bill before. We'll manage.'
Shelby tugged her sleeves down over her hands and nibbled on the hem. 'Did Mrs Crook say anything else?'
'No, why?'
Mrs Crook was a cleanliness freak and Brat had been in the rain for most of the afternoon. The first thing she would have done, after phoning the vet, was rub Brat down with a towel – Shelby was sure of it. Brat's boot polish would have rubbed off.
After cleanliness, the next thing Mrs Crook loved best was gossip. Shelby knew that even now, while she sat here exhausted, Mrs Crook would be on the phone to everybody at the stables and then everybody at Pony Club to tell them that not only was Shelby irresponsible, but she was also a horse thief. Shelby's mind raced as she tried to think what to do. She could act as surprised as they were about Brat's greyness; she could run away from here and never come back; or she could confess. Shelby favoured option two.
Her mother was still waiting for an answer.
'I think Brat might be stolen.'
Her mother frowned. 'What do you mean, honey?'
Shelby explained how she had washed Brat, and what Clint had said when he'd seen her.
Her mother was shocked. 'Shelby! Why didn't you tell us straightaway?'
'I was going to. I meant to ring the police this afternoon, as soon as I got home, but things got out of hand.'
Shelby's mother rubbed her eyes. She looked so tired. Shelby was ashamed. Her mother never yelled at her. She only ever looked disappointed, and that was worse.
'I really did mean to give her back,' she said.
'I believe you, honey.'
'What should I do?' Shelby asked.
Her mother sighed. 'What were you planning to do?'
'I was going to ring the police and tell them we have a stolen grey mare.' Shelby's words rang in her mind. Stolen grey mare. Where had she seen that before?
Shelby jumped off the lounge and ran into her bedroom. With each step she could feel every one of her strained muscles. She came back with Erin's magazine and flipped through the pages.
'Here,' she said, laying the magazine on her lap. She read the ad aloud. 'Stolen. Grey mare. Greatly missed by owner. Please send our girl home.'
She leaned forward to examine the picture. 'Do you think it's her?' she asked, holding the magazine up to her mother.
She shrugged. 'They all look the same to me.'
Shelby studied the photo more closely. The pony was dressed up in show finery, with her mane plaited. There was a girl in the saddle who was a couple of years older than Shelby, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. The horse was too small for her. The rider's boots hung down below the pony's belly. The photo had captured the pony mid-stride – three legs on the ground and one tucked up underneath her. It could have been Brat. It looked very much like her. Shelby flicked the page over to the section that listed ponies for sale. There were three or four photos of grey ponies in a similar pose. Any of them could be Brat too. It was so hard to tell when Shelby didn't know her true colour.
'Do you think I should phone them?'
Her mother leaned back, checking the clock in the kitchen. 'Yes. Why not?'
Shelby dialled, and then sat on the lounge holding her mother's hand. After a few rings, the line connected.
'Bob Mulligan speaking.'
'Mr Mulligan? I think I might have your horse.'
The man paused. 'We've had a few calls about that. Everyone wants a reward, but nobody has our mare. What makes you think it's her?'
'I just recently got a horse – actually, I swapped it for mine, and she was supposed to be brown, but it looks like she might be a grey,' Shelby began.
'We were going to swap a horse too!' Mr Mulligan butted in. 'Only it wasn't that one. We had another one the fellow was supposed to look at, but we didn't end up swapping at all because he was a bit pushy. He must have come back in the middle of the night because our little mare wasn't there the next day, and suddenly his phone was disconnected.'
'Did he have black hair and bushy eyebrows?' Shelby asked.
'Yes! He showed up in a truck, and wanted to take the horse right there and then. That's what made us suspicious. How is she? Where is she? Is she OK?'
Shelby paused. 'She's got a bit of a sore leg. The vet said it would be all right, though. What happened was –'
Mr Mulligan interrupted her. 'She was pawing at the fence, right? We had to put up special fencing to stop her doing that. I can't believe it! You little ripper! She's probably not as bad as you think. She can bung it on when she feels like it. This is amazing! You wait till I tell Sarah – that's my daughter. We thought we'd never see her again.' He laughed. 'I'm rapt.'
Shelby gave her address and phone number to the man and he said he would come and check that it was really his horse in a few days.
After she hung up Shelby leaned back on the lounge, grinning. She told her mother everything Mr Mulligan had said. She felt so much better.
Her mother leaned over and patted her on the shoulder. 'You know what that means? If you hadn't swapped, that man might have come back and taken Blue anyway, so you can stop beating yourself up about that.'
Shelby looked down at her hands. 'But that's not the point, is it? I shouldn't have let him go. I shouldn't have even rung in the first place.'
'Oh, I don't know,' her mother said. 'You wanted a new challenge. There's nothing wrong with that. If you never challenge yourself then you never improve.'
Shelby sighed. She hadn't expected the challenges to be so . . . challenging.
14 Lime
Shelby didn't have a horse to feed in the morning, but she was used to waking up early, so she lay in bed with her hands behind her head, scrunching and unscrunching her toes under the covers.
She'd been dreading the phone call to confess that Brat was stolen, and had put it off, but now that it was done it felt good. She'd made someone's life better. She wondered if she placed an ad in the magazine whether somebody like her would admit to having Blue.
Now all she had to do was face the Crooks. It didn't seem such a terrible task as it had the night before – now that she had done the right thing. She would tell them that, yes, Brat was a grey, and she was stolen, but she had informed the people who owned her and they were coming to collect her. She imagined Mrs Crook might get a little tight around the mouth, but they couldn't hold it against her. It wasn't as if she had stolen Brat.
Shelby climbed out of bed and padded out to the lounge room to watch cartoons with her brothers. The Lego toy box was still in the middle of the floor and Blake tipped it upside down, raking out the blocks with his small hands.
'Can you help me make a helicopter?' he asked.
Shelby held up the small haphazard block that he had created. 'I don't know how to make helicopters, but I can put together a wicked stable complex. Will that do?'
Blake nodded. Connor crawled across the carpet to help them.
Shortly afterwards her parents emerged from their room, and Shelby did another thing that she hadn't done for years – she had Sunday breakfast with her family.
'We're making a stable complex,' Blake announced.
'Really?' his father replied. 'It's a pity they don't make Lego a bit bigger. Then we could build Shelby a real one.'
'They do,' Connor informed him. 'It's called Duplo.'
Her father gave her a wink. 'You never know, Shel, Santa might bring you a great big pile of Duplo. Would you like that?'
'He'd never fit it through the range hood,' she replied.
The Shaws didn't have a fireplace, and so one time, when the boys had asked how Santa brought the presents, her father had told them that he came in through the range hood over the stove.
Connor chewed on a strip of bacon with his fingers, and then wiped the grease across his shirt in long smears, but his father didn't get cross as he usually would.
At the end of the meal Shelby's mother gathered the plates from the table.
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