by Stacy Gregg
The farm in Wiltshire continued to be Issie’s base in England while she competed throughout Europe. Stella Tarrant had taken over the reins as manager at The Laurels while Issie was on the road competing the advanced mounts.
It soon became more than a coincidence that at every international competition Issie seemed to find herself in the company of Marcus Pearce. They’d become best friends on the circuit, training together and helping each other whenever there was a problem with one of their horses. Issie couldn’t recall the precise moment when their relationship somehow became a romance, but she would never forget that night after the final showjumping phase at Stars of Pau in France, when Marcus took her out to dinner.
Marcus had beaten Issie to first place so the dinner, at a cute little French restaurant, was his treat. At the end of the meal, Issie was digging her spoon into her crème brulee and found something shiny and rock-hard in the middle. There was a diamond ring hidden in her dessert.
“Issie,” Marcus said, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met. I know this is a bit of a shock, but…”
Issie stopped his speech by taking the ring, still covered in sticky custard, slipping it on her finger and kissing him.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m saying yes.”
They were married three years later in a ceremony at The Laurels. The bride wore an incredible white gown designed by the internationally renowned designer, Natasha Tucker.
Natasha, also a guest at the wedding, was now living the fashion life in Paris, having given up on riding to focus on clothing. Her Natty T jodhpur range was a massive success and her fortune was substantial, which suited Natasha rather nicely. Oliver Tucker’s failed property deals had finally caught up with him and the last anyone heard of him he was working as a used-car salesman in Norwich.
Stella and Kate were the bridesmaids. Kate was now a fully qualified vet and had been thrilled to be offered a position working in the surgical clinic at the Glasgow Institute.
Old friends also present on the bride’s side included Roberto Nunez and his son Alfonso, who had flown over from Spain for the event – and Aidan, who made the trip from New Zealand with his new girlfriend, a stunt rider called Matilda who he’d met on the set of the latest Palomino Princess movie.
There was no time for a honeymoon as the newlyweds were both riding at Badminton the following weekend. It was Issie’s first four-star on Mystic. The grey gelding was fully grown and he stood a massive sixteen-three hands high, a true dapple-grey with coal-black eyes and a steel-grey mane.
That year the Badminton Horse Trials also marked the final competition for one of the great campaigners in Issie’s stables as Comet finally bowed out of three-day eventing. Issie’s other Grand Slam horse, Victory, had recovered from his leg surgery but had never been sound enough to compete again and he now lived with Kate at the Glasgow Institute.
As for Issie’s most famous horse of all, Nightstorm, the years had been good to him. After he won Burghley, Nightstorm dominated the famous horse trials twice in the next five years and Badminton a record three times in total. Nightstorm’s swansong had been six months ago at the Olympics in Rome.
When he was selected for the Olympic squad the critics were harsh. They said that Nightstorm was too old and too battle-weary to make it round the incredibly challenging Olympic cross-country course.
But Issie knew better. Storm was in the best form of his career – and she proved it. In Rome, the partnership went double clear to secure the individual gold medal.
Even though Storm still had a lot of gas left in his tank – and was still prone to the occasional bucking fit if you tried to make him do dressage for too long – Issie decided it was a good time for him to be retired.
Straight after they took the gold medal she put the stallion on a flight back to New Zealand. Avery had met the horse at the airport and after quarantine Storm had settled into a peaceful retirement at Winterflood Farm.
Knowing that he would be bored to tears if he was stuck in the paddock all day, Issie asked Francoise to ride him for her.
“He remains your horse, of course,” Francoise would tell Issie whenever she phoned up from The Laurels to check on him. “I am keeping the saddle warm for you, but Storm is very loyal. He never forgets who his true owner is; I can tell that in his heart he misses you as much as he did when he was a homesick colt in Spain.”
Issie felt the same way about Storm. She had ridden so many brilliant, talented horses over the years – and she had great hopes for the future with Mystic. But through it all, she had always felt that Storm was the one.
And so, six months after she retired him, she had made the trip back to Chevalier Point. It was a flying visit – just a few days to spare between international events. As she sat down and ate her scrambled eggs, she found herself itching to get to the farm, wanting, as always, to be with her horse.
It had been a long time since Issie had been to the farm, but these days the front gate was hard to miss. A sign had been hung at the entrance with the words Winterflood Farm crafted in wrought iron.
As Issie eased her mother’s hatchback up the driveway, she couldn’t believe how grand this place had become. The little saplings that had once stood on either side of the road had become tall, spreading plane trees and the cottage at the end of the drive had been remodelled to accommodate the family – two children, Xavier, aged ten, and six-year-old Marie-Claude.
Francoise was in the kitchen making crêpes when Issie arrived, and Xavier and Marie-Claude both rushed out as soon as they saw her.
“Issie!” Marie-Claude flung her arms around Issie’s waist. “We’ve got a performance! Mum said we can show you!”
Francoise shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, Issie. They have been waiting all morning for you. They’re desperate to show you their trick. I hope you don’t mind?”
Issie smiled at Marie-Claude. “Come on then – let’s go!”
In the paddock directly behind the house, Xavier, the spitting image of his father, busied himself preparing the series of obstacles around the paddock while Marie-Claude went to the stables to get her pony.
A moment later there was the clip-clop of hooves across the concrete of the yard and Marie-Claude returned leading a liver chestnut mare, a pretty Anglo-Arab with a white blaze, a flaxen mane and four white socks.
Issie’s heart raced. “Hello, Blaze!” She stroked the mare’s velvet-soft muzzle. “What on earth have these two roped you into?”
Blaze was now in her twenties, but the mare was still a beauty. At Winterflood Farm she led the sweet life of the spoilt family pony – her belly was well-rounded and her coat shone like burnished copper.
Both of the children had learnt to ride on her, but now the mare belonged only to Marie-Claude. “They adore each other,” Francoise told Issie. “They spend hours together out here. I have no idea what they are up to – one day I came out and found them both lying down underneath that tree over there. Blaze was on her side on the grass and Marie-Claude was snuggled up between her front legs with her head on Blaze’s shoulder!”
Marie-Claude clambered on to Blaze with no saddle or bridle. She sat up and wrapped her hands in Blaze’s mane and gave her brother the signal. Xavier stood in the centre of the paddock on top of an old wooden crate, acting the ringmaster and calling out instructions as Marie-Claude rode Blaze through the obstacle course. They wound their way through traffic cones and stepped over tarpaulins and logs, then squeezed between oil drums. The finale of the act was the grand moment when Xavier held his hands over his head and Blaze rose up on her hind legs in a perfect rear, with Marie-Claude giggling as she clung on in mid-air.
As Francoise and Issie applauded, Blaze dropped down on to one knee and did a graceful bow.
“You know, that was one of the first tricks I ever taught her,” Francoise said wistfully. “She was the best mare in El Caballo Danza Magnifico.”
“I know,” Issie said. “I remember.”
Issie left the children and Francoise in the paddock with Blaze and headed into the stables. There was a time when she thought this place was so vast, but now it felt so tiny.
She found Avery in the old tack shed where the photos of his great horses, including The Soothsayer, still decorated the walls.
“I’ve got Storm all tacked up for you,” her old trainer told her. “He’s in the last loose box.”
Issie followed him back out into the yard and down to the last box. The top of the Dutch door was left open, and as she got closer Storm heard her footsteps outside and stuck his head out. When he caught sight of Issie he gave a vigorous whinny. Issie laughed.
“Hey, boy! Yes, it’s me.”
Issie stepped inside the stable and Storm sniffed, checking her out with his nostrils wide and then nickering warmly as if to say, “You’re back! Where have you been!”
Issie hugged her horse. “I know. I missed you too.”
She led Storm out into the yard and Avery gave her a leg up.
“Francoise and I will have lunch ready when you come back.” Avery smiled up at Issie.
“It’s nice to see you back up on him,” he said. “You always looked so right on that horse.”
It was the perfect day for a hack. The weather was clear and sunny, and Storm’s deep bay coat shone in the sunlight. Even though he was no longer competing, the stallion looked as fit as he’d ever been. Issie harboured a secret suspicion that if she wanted to, she could have set off at a gallop and aimed him for the River Paddock fence to clear it with ease.
She resisted the urge; Storm had earnt his retirement. The most they would do today was a gentle canter along the grass verges.
At the gates of the River Paddock they halted and Issie looked out over the fields. She didn’t recognise any of the ponies in these pastures now.
This had been the place where Issie grazed her horses when she was a pony-club kid. Blaze had lived here. Fortune too, for a little while. And Mystic of course. Dear Mystic. She had never seen him again after that night when the grey colt had been born at The Laurels. She had never expected to, she supposed, but as she looked out over the paddocks and focused her gaze on The Pines, at the far end of the field, she felt her heart beat a little faster. Perhaps the shadows beneath the trees might be hiding a swaybacked grey pony? Would she catch a glimpse once more of his dapples shimmering in the morning sunlight?
Issie stood there for a while longer but the trees didn’t hold any secrets any more. With a reluctant last look over her shoulder she rode on.
The backroads were quieter than usual that day. Nightstorm was in a good mood, and as they walked along on a loose rein his merry, snorty grunts seemed to sound like he was humming a tune to himself.
By the time they reached the pony-club grounds, both of them had worked up a bit of a sweat and Issie tied Storm up to the club railing. The club rooms were unlocked and she’d brought enough loose change in her pockets to get a drink from the Coke machine.
Stepping inside the club rooms was like stepping into history. The place was still furnished with the same old overstuffed chairs, all still falling apart. In fact, Issie was pretty sure that those were the same ancient copies of PONY Magazine in the basket next to the coffee table.
She put her money in the slot and the drinks machine yielded up a can of Coke. She drank it as she led Storm to the trough and let him have some water. Then it was time to turn around and head home.
The walk back seemed shorter somehow – as they always do. Issie had just reached the grass verge that ran down the stretch of road from the River Paddock to Winterflood Farm when she heard hoofbeats behind her. She turned around and saw another horse and rider. The horse was a big chestnut, and even though he was clearly out for a casual hack, his rider had a very Natasha Tucker-ish attitude to turnout and had him kitted out in sparkling white boots and a white saddle pad, the sort of tack that Issie kept for best. His rider was also dressed in a tailored jacket and white show jods. They made a stark contrast to Storm, who had a tatty old navy rug under his saddle and Issie whose outfit consisted of a faded old red T-shirt and her oldest, most worn-out beige jods.
The woman cast an eye over Nightstorm. You could see by her expression that she was far from impressed by this slightly tubby and elderly bay hack. She would have given him a wide berth but it was hard to do this without being obviously snobby and so she reluctantly fell in alongside Issie, walking her chestnut at a brisk clip.
“Hi!” Issie said brightly. “Isn’t it a super day for a ride?”
“I hack Vanguard out once a week regardless of the weather,” the woman replied drily. “It’s a vital part of his schooling.”
Now that they were side by side, Issie could see that the chestnut horse, Vanguard, totally suited his owner. He had a piggy eye and his ears were permanently flattened back against his head. He clearly didn’t fancy having Issie and Storm for company any more than his snooty rider did.
“Do you compete him?” Issie asked, trying to break the ice.
“Of course!” The woman seemed to regard the question as an insult. “Vanguard is a very valuable horse. A hugely experienced eventer! I mean, you’re probably not aware of how the eventing world works, but it’s a very difficult sport. I’ve ridden him at several three-days, competing over one-star courses. Massive jumps! Dressage is our forte. I’ve had lessons from all the best instructors – Germans mostly. None of the local instructors are good enough for me…”
Issie listened as the woman went into a lengthy description of her training regime and every rosette and ribbon that Vanguard had ever won. It was like being back at pony club and being cornered by Natasha Tucker!
It wasn’t until they were at the gates of Winterflood Farm, that the woman finally paused for breath. She gave a dismissive glance at the bay horse that she had been riding beside this whole time and said loftily. “So what about him? Has he ever done anything?”
Issie reached down and gave her horse a slappy pat on his neck. “He used to compete,” she said, “but he’s retired now.”
Issie smiled warmly at the woman. “Well, this is where I turn off. Enjoy the rest of your ride. It was nice to meet you.”
The woman frowned – they were at the gates of the famous Winterflood Farm. What business could this girl have turning off down there? Ohmygod! It couldn’t be! Had she just made a terrible fool of herself?
“Wait!” she called anxiously after the girl. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
The girl on the bay horse turned back and smiled. “I’m Isadora Brown,” she said. “And this is Nightstorm.”
Acknowledgment
And so we find ourselves at the last fence on the course. Thank you so much to Rachel Denwood and Lizzie Ryley at HarperCollins, my agent Nancy Miles and the real Issie, who has been with me all the way.
www.stacygregg.co.uk
Other Books in The Pony Club Secrets series:
1. Mystic and the Midnight Ride
2. Blaze and the Dark Rider
3. Destiny and the Wild Horses
4. Stardust and the Daredevil Ponies
5. Comet and the Champion’s Cup
6. Storm and the Silver Bridle
7. Fortune and the Golden Trophy
8. Victory and the All-Stars Academy
9. Flame and the Rebel Riders
10. Angel and the Flying Stallions
11. Liberty and the Dream Ride
12. Nightstorm and the Grand Slam
Also available in the series:
Issie and the Christmas Pony
(Christmas special)
Copyright
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2011
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London, W6 8JB.
PONY CLUB SECRETS. Text Copyright © Stacy Gregg 2011. Illustrations © Fiona Land 2011. All rights reserved under Intern
ational and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ISBN 978-0-00-729932-4
Stacy Gregg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
EPub Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-00-743588-3
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