Pony Jumpers 4- Four Faults

by Kate Lattey

  Pony Jumpers

  #4

  FOUR FAULTS

  Kate Lattey

  1st Edition

  Copyright 2015 © by Kate Lattey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Preview of Pony Jumpers #5: FIVE STRIDE LINE

  More books by Kate Lattey

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Find & Follow

  * * *

  “Courage is being scared to death,

  but saddling up anyway.”

  - John Wayne

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sheep flowed down the hill below us, scattering like confetti once they were through the gate at the bottom. Dad’s sharp whistle travelled along the gully and made its way back up the track towards me, making Colin sit up and look downhill, his head cocked to the side. Rory shifted her weight under me and rested a hind leg, bored of waiting. It was a warm day in late spring, almost summer, and the flies were starting to strike. A trickle of sweat ran down my back, between my shoulder blades, funnelling its way along my spine. Colin dropped back to his belly, panting hard, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

  “Look at you,” I teased him, leaning down and lowering a hand towards his mottled head. “Piking out already. Don’t you know you were bred to work in Australia? It’s a lot hotter there than it is around here.”

  Colin pulled himself into a sitting position and licked my fingers cheerfully, then leaned against Rory’s leg with a sigh. My pony lowered her head and looked at him, but didn’t object to the cattle dog using her as a leaning post.

  Reaching around behind me, I pulled a water bottle out of Rory’s saddle bags and took a swig before leaning down and squirting some into Colin’s waiting mouth. He gulped and swallowed, wagging his tail in thanks. Rory huffed out a sigh, and lowered her head to crop the short grass.

  “You can drink out of the creek,” I told her. “Not long now.”

  I leaned back in the saddle and replaced my water, then rested a hand on my pony’s hindquarters as I waited for Bayard to catch up. I could see almost the entire farm from the top of this hill. Rolling hills speckled with sheep, their tracks zig-zagging haphazardly down the steeper inclines. Misshapen patches of scrub provided shelter on the rugged hill country that had been farmed by my family for four generations. Most of it had been cleared by my great-grandfather, who had moved here from England as a keen young man willing to work hard to make his way in the world. He’d bought a parcel of land and set to work cutting scrub and building a small house for him and his young wife. It had long since been replaced by the larger, less rustic homestead that we lived in now, over there in the distance, partially obscured by trees.

  Rory lifted her head and whiffled her nostrils as a stock chestnut horse came jogging up the incline behind us, bashing his way through the scrubby manuka. Rusty’s rider slouched in the saddle, his lower legs jutting forward. The sun made a halo of Bayard’s thick blonde hair, and he raised a hand and gave me a thumbs-up signal.

  I nudged Rory forward to the gate and reached down to grab it as Rusty went through, his shod hoofs clipping across the stones in the gateway.

  “What were you doing down there?” I asked Bayard as I swung the gate shut behind us. “You took forever.”

  “Sweeping for stragglers, like I was told.”

  “You probably didn’t need to be so thorough,” I told him. “If they were there, we’d have already found them. Move over Rory, I can’t latch the gate up unless you’re standing next to it.”

  Rory swished her tail and grudgingly moved a half-step closer. I could feel her weight starting to swing back already, preparing to step away, and I moved quickly, shoving the gate clip onto the heavy staple. It latched with a satisfying click and I grabbed a hunk of Rory’s dark mane to keep my balance as she swerved away and hurried down the hill behind Rusty, ever fearful of being left behind.

  I watched Bayard as we rode. He hadn’t been born into a farming family like I had, and still had some catching up to do after moving out here to live with his aunt and uncle when he was twelve, because his parents had split up and couldn’t agree who was going to take him. Being one of eight children meant he wasn’t considered a prime commodity, so in the end he’d come out here with two of his brothers as what was supposedly just a temporary respite. His brothers hadn’t lasted, missing the brighter lights of the city, but Bayard had stuck around. He never wanted to leave. We’d been friends for a long time now. Both of us were happier helping out on the farm than going to school, or into town, or out to parties. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but I liked the peace and quiet. Riding with Bayard was never exactly thrilling or hair-raising, but that’s exactly how I liked it. The only thing that irked me sometimes was that, despite my attempts to improve his equitation, he was perfectly happy to slump around in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. At first he’d just nodded along when I corrected his riding, but eventually he’d got fed up and told me that Rusty didn’t seem to mind whether his heels were all the way down or not, so why should I?

  “I’m not planning to start show jumping any time soon,” he’d reminded me. “Won’t be following you lot around to the shows and all that, so teaching me to jump would probably be a waste of your time.” And I’d had to admit he was right, and conceded defeat.

  Rusty swished his tangled tail, and Rory flicked her head out of its way. That’ll teach you for crowding his heels. The track wound around the edge of the steep hill, and we let the reins loose on our horses’ necks, allowing them to find their own way down.

  “Watch out,” Bayard called back to me, ducking sharply to the side to avoid being hooked by an encroaching strand of bush lawyer. It appeared innocent enough, looking like just another leafy green plant growing from the clay bank, but its sharp hooks would dig into your skin and rip you open if you gave it half the chance. Not to mention it would then sting like billy-o, as Pop used to say. I leaned out to the left to avoid it touching it, then heard something that made me pull Rory up with a frown.

  “Hey, hold up.” Rory tossed her head in irritation at the delay as Rusty ground to a halt too, and I held a hand up to Bayard, listening hard. “Do you hear that?”

  He frowned for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Down there.”

  He jumped down from Rusty’s saddle and walked to the edge of the bank, looking down. On steep land like ours, the tracks between paddocks are often quite narrow and overgrown, because it’s only the sheep that usually have to make their way along them. The drop-off on the side of this track was steep, and somewhere down there was a lost lamb.

  “Can you see it?” I stood in my stirrups and peered over the edge, but I couldn’t pick anything out amongst the scrub.

  “I think so.” Bayard unclipped Rusty’s reins from his bit and left him loose, trusting him to stay with me and Rory, then started making his way down the bank. I watched him grab at handfuls of grass and manuka saplings as he went, following his bright red and y
ellow rugby jersey until it disappeared into the scrub. Rusty dropped his head and started cropping grass while he waited, and I checked my watch. It had been almost fifteen minutes since the mob had gone down into the gully, and Dad would be wondering where we were. Colin stood further down the track, watching me plaintively. The sheep were way ahead of us, and his instincts to follow them were warring with his desire to stay with me.

  I was about to call to Bayard to hurry up when I heard hoofbeats coming back up the track towards us. At first I thought it might be Dad, or one of the other hands, coming to find us, but they were approaching much too fast for that. Dad would jog his horse up a hill like this, not ride at a fast canter. There was really only one person that it could be, and I whistled Colin closer to me and nudged Rory over to the side of the track. But Rusty was still blocking the narrow path, and we were just the other side of an almost blind corner. I didn’t have time to move him, even if I’d wanted to, so I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. Seconds later, a chunky grey pony with a dished face and cresty neck came barrelling around the corner, ears pricked and nostrils flared. He was breathing hard, and my sister swore as she saw Rusty in the way and hauled her pony to a sharp stop.

  “Block the track, why don’t you?” Hayley grumbled at me as Misty dragged air into his lungs through his wide nostrils. Small rivulets of sweat were running down his forehead and into his eyes, and a damp patch had broken out on his neck. She looked at Rusty disparagingly. “Get out of the way, you big oaf.” Her eyes scanned the scene curiously and she raised a haughty eyebrow. “Where’d Barnyard go? Run off for a pee in the bushes?”

  “He’s gone after a lamb. We could hear one down the bank.”

  I pointed, but Hayley didn’t really care. Preoccupied with finding a way past Rusty’s solid body, she was edging Misty ever closer to the bush lawyer. I could’ve warned her, but she knew this farm as well as I did, and she knew what the plant looked like. If she got it hooked into her bare arm, then it was no fault of mine. She was the only one who’d ride up an overgrown track like this with arms bare to the shoulder anyway. It wasn’t as if there was anyone around to impress, but ever since she’d started high school and discovered boys, Hayley’s preoccupation with her looks had taken over, and changed her completely from the sister I’d grown up with. She’d gone from being as much of a country kid as I was, running around the farm in gumboots, building forts and climbing trees and fishing for eels in the creek, and had turned into someone who cared more about hairstyles and nail polish and wearing the latest fashions. Mum had encouraged her, because Mum liked those things too, which had left Dad and I shrugging at each other. Hayley was in her last year at high school now, and had become as foreign to me as a distant relative. We’d been close once, but it felt like a long time ago now.

  Hayley noticed the bush lawyer at the last possible second, and kicked Misty sideways to avoid it. The grey pony reacted sharply, cannoning into Rusty’s hindquarters and making him pitch forward. My heart was in my mouth for a moment as I pictured him tumbling headfirst down the steep bank, but he was surefooted and sensible, and he managed to stay on his feet.

  “Watch it!” I told Hayley, and she shot me a scathing look that made me wish I’d just kept my mouth shut.

  “Tell your boyfriend not to park your horse in the way,” she snapped at me.

  He’s not my boyfriend, I thought, but didn’t bother to say it out loud. Hayley knew that as well as I did, but she never passed up an opportunity to tease me. Bayard and I were just friends – always had been, always would be, as far as I was concerned. I noticed boys, the way any fifteen year old girl notices boys, but Bayard didn’t count. Not like that.

  Misty laid his ears back at Rory as they passed, and she lowered her head and sidled away slightly, her body language as deferential as mine was. Hayley shot us both a smug look and rode Misty on up the track without a backward glance.

  I watched them go, my sister’s thick blonde hair billowing out behind her in a wave of bouncing curls. My sister cast a wide shadow that I had lived in my whole life as the less attractive, less exuberant, less interesting child. Hayley’s bright blue eyes and perfectly straight teeth offset her flawless skin, framed by a glossy mane of loose curls. In contrast, my faded hazel eyes and mouthful of braces disappeared into freckled skin that was waging a constant war against the onslaught of acne. My mousy brown hair kept itself wound in tight curls, and if I tried to brush it out I ended up looking like I’d gone backwards through a gorse bush.

  I heard noises over the edge of the bank, and returned my attention to Bayard as he came struggling up, shoving a lamb in front of him.

  “Get up there you stupid bugger,” he muttered, giving the recalcitrant animal one last heave. Its short legs skittered up the bank, struggling for purchase before finally making it up onto the track. The young sheep stood still for a moment, legs splayed and lungs heaving from its exertion, as Bayard hauled himself back to level ground and made his way back to Rusty’s side.

  “Was that Hayley come past?” he asked as he reattached Rusty’s reins, and I nodded. “Thought I saw a white blur. Isn’t Misty supposed to be your pony now?”

  I pulled a face at him. “She can keep him.”

  Bayard swung himself heavily back into the saddle, and we continued our ride downhill. “Not getting any keener on him then?”

  “Nope.”

  Misty was my sister’s pony, but now that she’d reluctantly aged out of the pony classes, he was supposed to be my new show jumper. But I didn’t like him. Actually, I was terrified of him, of the way that he leapt and bucked and bounded around the courses, pulling hard every step of the way and flinging his head around. I hated the way he jumped, as though he had springs for legs, clearing the big fences by unnecessary inches, occasionally landing on all fours because the striding had been off, or just because he felt like it. He’d always been tricky – we’d known that when we’d bought him – but it hadn’t mattered because Hayley was fearless. She loved Misty’s exuberance and if he went sideways around the corners, or threw his head so high that he almost gave her a nosebleed, or bucked furiously once he’d gone through the finish flags, she just laughed and kicked him on. But I hated all of those things. They scared me.

  It wasn’t Misty’s fault - he couldn’t help the way that he was. But I didn’t want to ride him. Truth be told, I didn’t want to show jump at all. I was happier riding around on the farm than I was flying over huge jumps in the competition arena. But it seemed that I don’t want to wasn’t a valid excuse anymore. Because who wouldn’t want to ride a Grand Prix show jumping pony with a list of achievements as long as their arm?

  I’d never been brave like my sister. And I’d happily spent years existing in her shadow, being less than all the time because I had no ambition to be anything more. Nobody had expected me to go out and jump big fences, because it was Hayley that was successful. It was Hayley that went fast and clear and won prizes. It was Hayley that made our parents proud. And she was still winning, now that she had Coppertop, her big chestnut Young Rider horse. But Copper wasn’t used to farm life yet, and instead of taking him out on regular hacks and teaching him about things like getting his feet wet in the creek, and not spooking at the sheep when they scuttled out of their hiding places on the sides of hills, Hayley preferred to keep riding Misty. I couldn’t complain, because it meant that I didn’t have to, but on the downside, it also meant that he was fighting fit and packed with muscle, making him even harder for me to handle on the rare occasions she bullied me into his saddle.

  Bayard and I rounded the corner and the farm sprawled out below us again. The mob were being sent up the raceway now, kept in line by the working dogs. A whistle floated up from below us, making Colin’s ears prick up. The lupin popped, releasing a sweet scent, and Bayard grinned at me as he nudged Rusty into a lumbering jog.

  “Last one to the bottom shuts the gate!”

  Rory was fast, and could beat Rusty easily in a fl
at race, but the track was still narrow and Rusty’s broad hindquarters were taking up every inch of available space, giving us no room to pass. I glanced up at the bank on our left, considering. I could jump Rory up onto that, and urge her on to overtake Rusty. Or we could slide down on the right, and canter along the boggy creek bed for a few strides before scrambling back up onto the track and get in front that way. Rory was faster, more athletic, and fitter than Rusty. She could do it.

  But even as I considered the options, I couldn’t help thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Rory might baulk at jumping up to the left, or might slip on her way down on the right. She could get bogged in the sucking mud of the creek bed, or trip in a rabbit hole going back up. I didn’t want to risk it. Anyway, shutting a gate wasn’t so hard. We did most of the gates anyway, because Rusty wasn’t very manoeuvrable and it took Bayard forever to get a gate opened and closed from his back. When he had to, he always dismounted and did them on foot.

  So really, I was doing him a favour.

  “I took Misty for a good gallop today,” Hayley told me at dinner that night, her blue eyes boring into me. “So he’ll be all set for you to jump tomorrow.”

  Not this again. I looked down at the plate in front of me, stabbing long slices of boiled carrot with my fork and stuffing them into my mouth so that I didn’t have to respond.

  “How did he go?” Mum asked, and Hayley grinned at her.

  “He was amazing! Honestly, he didn’t put a foot wrong or buck or anything. I don’t know what Tess’s problem is.” She shot me a dark look across the table, and I looked back down at my plate. “But okay, here’s my solution. I’ll ride Misty every day from now on, except at shows. Tess will compete him on the weekends, plus the occasional jumping lesson at home to help her get used to him, But really, he’s not that hard. What you see is what you get – he’s always the same.” Hayley sounded reasonable, confident, calm. Mum was looking at her thoughtfully, resting her fork on the table as she listened.