Sundancer

by Shelley Peterson

  Copyright © 2006 Shelley Peterson

  First ePub edition © 2012 Dancing Cat Books,

  Illustrations copyright © 2006 Marybeth Drake

  an imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.

  No part of this publication may be printed, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Cataloguing information available upon request.

  Peterson, Shelley

  Sundancer/Shelley Peterson.

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-77086-073-5 | MOBI ISBN 978-1-77086-074-2

  Cover design and image by: Angel Guerra/Archetype

  based on a text design by Tannice Goddard, Soul Oasis Networking

  Dancing Cat Books

  An imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.

  390 STEELCASE ROAD EAST, MARKHAM, ONTARIO, CANADA L3R 1G2

  www.dancingcatbooks.com • www.cormorantbooks.com

  To David, as always

  and to my own Sundancer,

  who didn’t have a Bird to tell his story to.

  PROLOGUE

  July had been lazy and hot, and August started out the same. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against a gate. On it, a big grey horse jumped over the words “Saddle Creek Farm.” The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken.

  Suddenly, the stillness of that Friday afternoon was shattered by the distant roar of a big engine. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. Then, the sharp, unmistakable sound of steel against steel. Thump, crash, thump, crash. Relentless, powerful, steady. The rhythmical beat continued, ever louder as the big rig neared.

  A large navy-blue horse trailer turned into the Saddle Creek driveway in a cloud of dust. “Owens Enterprises” was boldly painted in gold lettering along the shiny new aluminum sides.

  The furious pounding increased as the truck stopped in front of the century red-brick farmhouse with green door and shutters. Two scowling men stepped out of the vehicle and strode around to the back of the van. One carried a long whip, the other a sturdy broom.

  The man with the broom dropped the ramp while the one with the whip prepared to enter the van. Without warning, a magnificent, lathered chestnut horse shot backward off the trailer and shoved both men aside. A broken leather lead shank dangled from his torn halter.

  Now the muscular, haughty creature stood braced and prepared to fight, like a heavyweight champion in the middle of the ring. With nostrils flared he snorted loudly. His sleek, sweat-drenched body vibrated with energy. His delicate ears were pricked to catch all sounds. His intelligent dark eyes were intense, his classic head alert to any threat.

  The men circled him menacingly. Loudly, they cursed their bad luck at being assigned to deliver this dangerous and ornery horse. Swearing at the recalcitrant animal, the men moved in closer. They cornered him, using a sturdy oak rail fence and the horse trailer as barriers. The horse tossed his fiery mane. He shook his head wildly, which sent remnants of leather flying. Vigorously he pawed the gravel driveway, then sniffed the air with suspicion. Neck arched and tail high, he spun to face every direction in turn, looking for a way out.

  To humble him, the one man snapped his long whip hard across the horse’s flank, leaving a bleeding welt. As the trapped creature spun to face his attacker, the other smacked him across the head with the broom, following through with such a whack that for a moment the animal was stunned. He staggered, dazed. The whip came down again, whoosh, landing across his back and tearing the flesh over his kidneys. The broom was raised to strike his face.

  As the man with the whip prepared to throw a rope over his head, the mighty chestnut got his bearings. He bucked, twisted, and shot out a double-barrelled kick, missing his targets by inches.

  I have nowhere to go, nothing to lose.

  The men hollered their outrage. The horse assessed his options and made his decision. He would not be caught. From a standstill, he rocked back on his haunches and effortlessly sprang over the solid four-rail fence into the front paddock.

  With cat-like agility, he spun as he landed then defiantly stared at the men. He raised his head high and whinnied with ear-piercing intensity. Then, he turned his back, kicked out dismissively, and ran off to stake out his chosen territory. Bucking and rearing and prancing and diving, the fearsome chestnut raced around his new domain. He leaped and dove and kicked the sky. The earth trembled as he pounded the inside perimeter of the paddock.

  The engine of the big rig roared to life. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived. As the noise receeded into the distance, the dust settled, and a little wren resumed his song.

  Nothing at Saddle Creek Farm would ever be the same.

  1

  THE NEW HORSE

  It is time to tell my story.

  I am big and I am beautiful. When I run, I run like the wind, and when I jump, I jump like a deer. I am a winner.

  Alone in the paddock, the sleek chestnut gelding grazed. He methodically trimmed the blades of grass close to the ground, left to right, right to left, as far as his neck could reach. He took a step and began again. Row after row. Step after step.

  A woman and a girl leaned on the fence and observed him closely, an old yellow dog at their feet. A quiet breeze ruffled their hair and gently rippled their clothing. The woman, fortyish, lean and sinewy, smoothed her fair hair from her face and muttered, “What the deuce are we going to do with him, Bird?”

  The girl said nothing. The hot August air blew her unkempt hair into her eyes, and she made no effort to remove it. Her arms were skinny and brown with the sun.

  He’ll be my horse, she thought. No one else’s.

  Tell me your story, handsome. She aimed the thought in the horse’s direction. No response.

  The horse had been delivered earlier, while Bird and Hannah were out checking the fences. Bird wished she’d been there to see his arrival. Their vet, Paul Daniels, had practically begged Hannah to take him in. A favour, he’d said. An underdog in need. Bird could relate.

  Lazily, the horse took another step and began a new line of grass. He casually swished his tail to rid himself of flies.

  Bird studied the horse closely. He was extraordinarily handsome. Sixteen hands, two inches tall, she guessed. His legs were long, fine, strong, and straight, correct in every way. His neck was elegant, with a graceful curve along the top line of his body, connecting his delicate ears to his generous withers and across the gentle slope of his back to his perfectly rounded haunches. Every movement he made was graceful, and his coat gleamed a fiery copper.

  And yet, something about this horse was not quite right. Underneath his calm exterior, as he mechanically grazed and pointedly ignored them, was a nervousness, a jumpiness, that Bird found disquieting. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust anyone.

  “Poetry, eh, Bird?” said Hannah. “He’s like poetry in motion.” Hannah sighed and turned back to the house. “Don’t be too long, hon. Supper’s almost r
eady.” She stopped for a moment, waiting for a reaction. There was none. Alberta, nicknamed Bird, continued to stare at the animal.

  “Don’t get any ideas, young lady. Nobody can handle this horse. That’s why he ended up here. Saddle Creek: farm of last resort. I’ll add that to our sign, if I ever get around to fixing it.”

  Hannah Bradley shot one last glance at the new horse and headed for the house. She left the girl, the dog, and the horse alone.

  Now, finally, the gelding raised his eyes to meet the girl’s. They assessed each other, neither one making a move.

  Talk to me, beautiful horse. Tell me your story. Bird willed the big horse to respond. I know you can hear me.

  The horse simply stared.

  Why are you so suspicious? You have nothing to fear with me.

  The horse didn’t so much as blink. He dropped his head back to the grass and continued grazing. Bird crouched down on her heels and began to rock gently. Although she was growing fast, Bird was still small for her thirteen years. She used that to her advantage now, as she manoeuvred her body under the lowest rail of the fence. She inched her bottom over to the post and quietly leaned her back against it.

  In spite of spindly legs and oversized ears, Bird was pretty in her own unique way. Deep sable eyes graced her elfin face. Often they were dull and expressionless, but at other times they were lit by flashes of intelligence and sensitivity. Right now, they were almost entirely covered by her dark brown bangs that were badly in need of a trim. Impatiently she pushed the hair off her face and continued to stare at the horse.

  Now that Hannah had gone, it seemed quiet in the paddock. The yellow dog dozed in the grass at her feet. The horse grazed in the field. Bird watched and enjoyed the silence. All at once, the horse stopped and looked directly at her, as if waiting for her to say something.

  Don’t look at me, Bird thought with a smile. Alberta Simms hadn’t spoken a word for seven years, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  BIRD WAS HANNAH’S NIECE, the daughter of Hannah’s younger sister, Eva. Eva had dropped Bird off at Saddle Creek — farm of last resort — two years earlier, on her way to another new life, with another new man. As far as Bird could tell, this was Eva’s way. Bird’s father was a cowboy from Calgary who left when Eva told him she was pregnant. He rode off into the sunset never to return, Eva was fond of saying, and had never even phoned to find out if the baby was a boy or a girl.

  From the time Bird could remember, Eva seemed to change jobs often, which meant picking up and moving to a new place. She was always hoping for something better, more interesting, less boring. Eva had changed boyfriends often, too, always hoping for someone better, more interesting, less boring. The one constant in Bird’s life, until the day she moved in with her Aunt Hannah, was change.

  Now, sitting at the edge of this field with this beautiful horse, Bird could feel Hannah watching her from the kitchen window.

  What was she worrying about now? The traces of a fond smile formed at the corner of Bird’s mouth. She’s worrying that I don’t talk. She’s worrying that I don’t fit in. She’s worrying that I’ll never be normal. Most of all, she’s worrying about school. And with good reason.

  On the last day of classes, Stuart Gilmore, the principal of the Forks of the Credit school, had told Hannah that Bird could not come back. The school was simply not equipped to handle her. He’d given Hannah a list of alternative schools, and for the last few weeks Bird had watched as Hannah tried to find her a place. She’d had no luck with any of the public schools, and she couldn’t afford the fees at the private ones. Now it was August, and at the top of Hannah’s to-do list — posted conveniently on the refrigerator door — was to call Stuart Gilmore. Bird figured that Hannah planned to ask one more time.

  Bird hated school. The kids were mean. But if she had to go back, the Forks of the Credit would be better than unknown alternatives.

  Hannah called from the kitchen window. “Bird! Supper’s ready!” Bird was hungry, but she disliked the confinement of sitting properly at the table, and she detested being constantly coached on her manners. Reluctantly, she scrambled back under the fence.

  Come for dinner, Hector. Bird stroked the dog on her way past.

  He raised his head and thumped his tail.

  Yummy. I’ve been hungry all day.

  So what else is new? Bird smiled. What do you think of the new horse, Hector?

  I don’t trust him. You shouldn’t either.

  Bird nodded slowly and patted Hector’s head. He won’t talk to me yet, so I don’t know what to make of him. Bird hadn’t faced this before. Most animals responded to her immediately, delighted that a human could not only talk to them, but also understand what they had to say.

  She slowly raised her hand and stretched it out toward the horse. The haughty chestnut lifted his head. Bird tried again to reach into his mind. Talk to me. Tell me about yourself.

  The horse gave Bird a bored look, then turned his back, providing a perfect view of his welts and cuts. They would heal nicely with proper care, but so far the horse had not allowed anyone to get close to him, let alone treat his wounds. Earlier, when she’d first spotted him, Bird had taken the water hose out to the field. She’d stood on the fence and created a fountain that he had eventually walked into to cool off, so at least the wounds were washed out. She’d tried to squirt Wonder Dust, an antiseptic powder, into the nastier gashes but had only been somewhat successful. Tomorrow she’d try again.

  Not for the first time, Bird wondered what had happened to this horse. How did he get those cuts, and why had he ended up at Saddle Creek? What did they do to you, beautiful fellow? Bird waited a moment for an answer then ran to the farmhouse without a backward glance.

  LATE THAT NIGHT, THE quiet of the farmhouse was disturbed by the telephone ringing.

  In her darkened room beside Hannah’s, Bird was instantly awake. The walls of the old farmhouse were thin, and Hannah’s voice, drowsy with sleep, travelled easily into Bird’s room.

  “It’s late here, Eva. I was asleep.”

  Eva. Her mother. Bird wiggled out of bed, placing two bare feet on the wooden floor. She crept quietly down the stairs, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and made her way into the kitchen where the extension hung on the wall beside the fridge. Softly, she raised the receiver to her ear. Her mother was laughing about the time difference. Hannah was not amused.

  “It’s one a.m., Eva. This better be good.”

  “Randy asked me to marry him.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You don’t mean that. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Eva, it’s the middle of the night. Tomorrow I have to get up early to take four horses to a show. I don’t know Randy. I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve been engaged, and last night your daughter threw her dinner at the wall because she wanted dessert first. Excuse me for my lack of enthusiasm.”

  Bird cringed at Hannah’s words and waited out the long silence on the line.

  “Actually, Hannah, that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Speak to me, Eva. I’m not good at riddles at one in the morning.” “Randy wants to meet my family, so we’re coming to visit in a couple of weeks. I’ve told him all about you and Daddy and Mom, but he doesn’t know about Bird.”

  Silence again. Then Hannah’s voice, more awake now. “You said he doesn’t know about Bird?”

  “Yes.”

  “What doesn’t he know? Her existence or her unusualness?”

  “Both.”

  Bird listened closely. She could hear the intake of air as Hannah took a deep breath. “So, when are you going to tell him?”

  “It’s not that easy, Hannah. He adores Julia. But I know he’d have a hard time with Bird. It might change things.”

  “Reality sucks.”

  “I don’t know why I called, you make me so mad!”

  “So why did you call, Eva?”

  Again, there was a pause, but this time Bird could feel a c
rackle of energy on the line. Something big was about to happen.

  “Can you tell Randy that Bird is your daughter? There. I’ve said it.”

  In the darkened kitchen, Bird felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She fought the urge to smash the phone against the wall and knock everything off the counter.

  Hannah spoke calmly, quietly. “Let me get this straight. You want me to tell Randy that Bird is my daughter. Is Julia still yours?”

  “Yes, Randy loves her.”

  Bird thought of her little sister. A pretty, cheerful nine-year-old. Chatty, charming, and well adjusted. Blonde and beautiful like their mother.

  “Look, Hannah.” Eva was still talking, faster now. “Don’t go all holier than thou on me. You know I couldn’t take Bird with me to California. She was in school and she had her friends ...”

  “Friends? Since when has Bird had a friend? And Bird had to change schools anyway when she moved in with me. We both know why you left her here, so at least be honest with yourself if not with me. Or with Randy, for that matter. What kind of marriage are you —”

  Eva cut her off. “This is going nowhere. I’ve already told Randy that you have an autistic child, so it’s done.”

  “Eva!” The line went dead.

  Bird stood listening to the dial tone until it stopped. The recorded message played, “Hang up. Please hang up now.”

  Finally, Hannah tumbled the receiver back into its cradle. Bird hung up, too, then sank down to the kitchen floor with her back was against the wall and her knees drawn tightly to her chest.

  Autistic. The magic word. It was spoken. Bird had sat through enough “sessions” to know that it was a popular amateur diagnosis for a grab bag of disorders. She had to admit that she exhibited some of the clinical symptoms. She was frenetic at times. Distracted. She’d always been extremely sensitive to noise and light and sudden movement, and was prone to outrageous tantrums when thwarted. She detested change in routine. She didn’t speak, she rocked, she could rarely look a person in the eye. But there was so much more to her than that! More than anyone could see. Sometimes Bird thought that Hannah came close. It was Hannah who’d found the one doctor who’d disagreed with the others.