A FEW HOURS later, when Mrs. DeSoto came in, Carole and Lisa were finishing their second-to-last wall, and Stevie had done almost all the trim. Mrs. DeSoto appeared at the door. “Flying change?” she read in a puzzled voice.
Lisa and Carole turned to her in equal puzzlement. Stevie looked slightly embarrassed. “There.” Mrs. DeSoto pointed to the last wall—the one with Stevie’s horse on it. Sometime after they had all started working, Stevie had gone back to her painting of Belle and added an arrow pointing to Belle’s legs along with the words “flying change!”
“Oh that,” Stevie said vaguely. “It’s a thing a horse does—or doesn’t, depending on the horse.”
“Yes, I know,” Mrs. DeSoto said. “I just wondered why you painted it on the wall.”
“We saved that wall for last,” Lisa chimed in quickly, sensing Stevie’s discomfort, “because we really loved Stevie’s picture. Isn’t it a beautiful horse?”
“It is,” Mrs. DeSoto agreed. “I’d even like to leave it there—but I think plain walls might go better with the curtains and furniture I’ve ordered. I came to tell you that I’ve made some hot soup for lunch, since it’s such a cold day—homemade New England clam chowder, a specialty of the DeSoto Inn.”
They laughed. All week long Mrs. DeSoto had been experimenting with new recipes, calling each one “a specialty of the inn.”
“Lunch will be ready soon,” she concluded. “As soon as you’re finished painting, come eat!”
AFTER LUNCH THE girls sat in the bright kitchen and looked out the windows. The rain showed no signs of stopping. “I don’t think today is a good day for Assateague,” Denise said.
“I agree,” Stevie said. “The marshlands are wet enough in dry weather. Today we’d sink in up to our knees!” Stevie’s thigh felt stiff and sore, and she was glad to have an excuse not to walk much.
“There’s always the beach,” Denise said, but even she sounded doubtful.
“No thanks,” said Lisa. “Can you imagine how cold the ocean would feel today? Brr!”
Carole fingered the tablecloth reluctantly. “I’ve been trying to decide how I feel about this,” she said. “I read that, somewhere in town here, they have Misty—I mean the real Misty, the pony—in a museum. We could go there.” She looked up at her friends. “I’m just not sure that I want to.”
Stevie frowned. “I know Misty was a real pony,” she said. “But Carole—that book was written fifty years ago! Misty’s dead!”
“Is that true?” Lisa asked.
Mrs. DeSoto nodded. “I have to know all about the island if I’m going to be a good innkeeper,” she said. “Both Carole and Stevie are right. Misty had a good life; she lived to be more than thirty years old. When she died they stuffed her, like—I don’t know, like a wildlife exhibit—and they have her in a little museum in town. I haven’t been there, but I can tell you girls where it is.”
“Eew,” said Stevie. “I mean—I’m glad Misty was real, and I’m glad she had a good life, but I don’t know if that means I want to see her skin.”
“I’m with you, Stevie,” Nigel said, toasting her with his cup of tea.
“I don’t know,” said Dorothy. “I’ve talked to some of the people in town, and one woman told me that it seems to mean a lot to some children to be able to touch and pet Misty. It makes her more real to them.
“Paul Beebe was killed in a car accident when he was a young man,” she continued. “Maureen is married and still lives nearby, but she’s not the young girl she was in the book. A group of people are trying to raise money to buy Grandpa Beebe’s house and set it up as a memorial, but his Pony Farm is already gone. Misty’s the only thing that’s still the same.”
“That’s not quite right,” Denise argued. “The wild ponies are still the same, too. I mean, I read the book Misty when I was in the fourth grade and I really liked it. I guess I still do, but I think the live ponies on Assateague are the best memorial to Misty.”
“You can touch them,” Stevie muttered, rubbing the leg of her blue jeans, “and know they’re real.” Her friends gave her cautious looks. “I don’t mean really,” she added hastily.
“I guess, after all, I’d rather remember Misty the way she is in Marguerite Henry’s book,” said Carole. “I really don’t want to see her.” No one could argue with that.
“We could take a walk,” Lisa suggested after a pause. “We haven’t seen too much of the actual town yet.”
“In this rain?” protested Stevie. “We’d freeze to death! No thank you.”
Lisa remembered Stevie’s bruised leg. She nodded understandingly.
“Well,” Mrs. DeSoto said briskly. “I don’t think we need to fill the house with any more paint fumes, not on a day when we can’t possibly open the windows. I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a great DeSoto Inn chocolate chip cookie recipe that needs testing. If you girls wouldn’t mind—”
Stevie leaped up from the table so fast her leg started to throb. “Lead me to the chips!” she proclaimed.
Lisa and Carole grinned. This seemed like the Stevie they knew best and hadn’t seen since the trouble with Belle began. Maybe Chincoteague was indeed just what Stevie needed.
NIGEL, DOROTHY, MRS. DeSoto, Mrs. Reg, and Denise all sat around the big kitchen table while The Saddle Club whipped up a super batch of cookies. Nigel made another pot of tea; Mrs. Reg made coffee, and they ate cookies and talked.
“I remember the first time you stopped me after one of Dorothy’s riding lessons,” Mrs. DeSoto said to Mrs. Reg, “and told me that you thought Dorothy really showed some riding talent. I thought, ‘Oh, horrors! I’ve got a talented child!’ ” The adults burst out laughing.
“I don’t understand,” Carole said, frowning. “Why would that be horrible?” Stevie and Lisa grinned. They were both good riders, but they knew that Carole wanted someday to be far better than good.
“Oh, the work!” explained Mrs. DeSoto. “Think about it—I had to put up with Dorothy going down to that stable every day. I had to endure muddy boots on my carpet and muddy breeches in the wash. I knew that soon I’d be spending my Saturdays at horse shows, and eventually I’d probably have to buy her a horse!”
She laughed again, and this time Carole laughed with her. She hadn’t ever thought about her riding from her father’s point of view. “I bet you were just as understanding of Dorothy’s riding as my dad is of mine,” she said.
“Well, yes,” admitted Mrs. DeSoto. “But those first few minutes were terrifying.”
Stevie turned away from the table and looked out the window again. Raindrops made tracks down the glass, and the sky was dark gray. She wondered if it was raining at Pine Hollow. Ever since she’d gotten up that morning, she’d worried about Belle. Red had promised to turn Belle out when they were gone, and first Stevie had worried that he hadn’t done it, that Belle was pining and restless in her stall. Now she worried that Red had left Belle out in the cold rain, and Belle was wet and unhappy.
Stevie sighed and leaned her head against the window. Belle had been miserable the last day they spent together—the last ride they had had, when Stevie had tried to force her to do a flying change. No, Stevie corrected herself, I tried to teach her a flying change.
No, she corrected herself again, more honestly, I tried to force her to do a flying change. She sighed again. She loved her horse so much. She didn’t know what to do! No matter how much fun she had on Chincoteague, Stevie couldn’t stop thinking about Belle. If only Belle would do a flying change!
Lisa saw the anguished look on her friend’s face. She touched Carole’s arm and pointed to Stevie, and Carole nodded sadly. No matter how much they tried to get Stevie’s mind off Belle, clearly it wasn’t working. Stevie was miserable.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Nigel and Mrs. DeSoto went to the mainland to shop at a wholesale club for kitchen and bathroom supplies for the inn. Dorothy planned to go shopping for bed and bath linens to match the inn’s guest rooms. Denise volunteered to go with her. Onl
y The Saddle Club and Mrs. Reg were left on Chincoteague.
“Well,” said Mrs. Reg, laying down her copy of the island’s weekly newspaper, “it gives the name of a store here that rents bicycles. Wouldn’t that be a nice way for us to get to Assateague?”
The Saddle Club quickly agreed. Half an hour later, mounted on bicycles, the four rode across the bridge to the outer island.
“What I’d like to do is explore the lighthouse,” Mrs. Reg declared. “After that, you girls can take over and show me your favorite spots.” They left their bicycles on the edge of the parking lot across from the Visitors’ Center and began the short walk uphill to the red-and-white-striped lighthouse.
“Stevie, are you limping?” Mrs. Reg asked, her voice tinged with concern.
Stevie shrugged. She’d been trying not to show it, but her leg was still a little sore. “A wild pony kicked me,” she confessed, “but it was my fault.” She pulled the leg of her shorts up and showed Mrs. Reg the yellowing bruise. “It’s not serious; it’s just sore.”
Mrs. Reg examined the bruise and nodded. “Around horses, it’s easy for things to be the rider’s fault,” she said. “Do be careful, Stevie.” She gave Stevie a sympathetic look and continued walking.
As usual, Stevie wasn’t sure what Mrs. Reg meant, but she was glad Mrs. Reg wasn’t angry at her. She was a bit glad, too, that Mrs. Reg had found out about the accident.
“Mrs. Reg, do you believe in the Spanish galleon?” Carole asked.
“I certainly believe in Spanish galleons in general,” Mrs. Reg said. “Did you have a particular one in mind?”
Carole grinned. “The one that was supposed to have wrecked off Assateague and left the ponies here,” she said. “Do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t,” Lisa cut in. “I enjoy reading about it that way, but I think the other story Denise told us—the one about the colonial horses escaping and banding together—makes more sense. It fits the available facts better.”
“But what if the facts aren’t available?” Stevie asked her. “The way I see it, the fact is if a ship sank, there aren’t any facts. Or if there are, they’re down on the bottom of the ocean with the rest of the ship.”
“But I really think it could be true,” Carole persisted. “If the ship is on the bottom of the ocean, that’s a fact, isn’t it?”
“If it is,” Lisa said. “And I think if it were down there, someone would have found it by now. And since no one has, it isn’t there. And therefore—”
“But think about it, Lisa,” countered Carole. “A whole shipful of ponies, worth their weight in gold, headed to a horrible life in the South American gold mines, and instead they get caught in a terrible storm, a hurricane, maybe—”
“Oh, definitely, make it a hurricane,” said Stevie.
Carole ignored her and went on, “—and then they land on this wonderful island, with fresh water, sandy beaches, and good marsh grass, everything they need to live—”
“—happily ever after,” Lisa concluded. “It’s romantic, like a fairy tale, and that makes it a good story. But I don’t think that the best story is always the truth.” They had reached the lighthouse but discovered that it was locked. “I thought they’d have a lighthouse keeper,” Lisa said, sounding disappointed. “Isn’t that the way it works in books?”
“Now who’s reading too many books!” Stevie said, laughing. “Lisa, it’s electric. Automatic. They probably had a lighthouse keeper here a hundred years ago.”
“A lighthouse was first built on this location in the 1830s,” Mrs. Reg said, reading the sign near the door. “And they have a local art exhibit up here on weekends. Too bad we won’t be staying past Friday.” They walked around the base of the lighthouse, exploring.
“But back to what you said before, Lisa,” said Stevie. “About the most interesting story not always being the truth. Just because a story’s interesting doesn’t mean it can’t be true. You shouldn’t believe that the ponies came from the colonists just because that’s the most boring explanation we have.”
“I still think the ponies came from a wrecked Spanish galleon,” Carole said stubbornly.
“I don’t think it matters at all where the ponies came from,” Mrs. Reg interjected suddenly. “All horses are basically the same.”
The Saddle Club stared at her in disbelief. “You can’t mean that!” Stevie said.
“Starlight,” Carole cut in indignantly, “is nothing at all like Patch!” Patch was one of the oldest and gentlest—and least athletic and least exciting—horses at Pine Hollow.
“And all the different breeds of horses are different from one another,” Lisa said. “Thoroughbreds are fast and athletic; quarter horses are agile and strong—”
Mrs. Reg held up her hand. “All right, all right! I didn’t mean it quite that way! What I meant was, all horses are horses. They all act like horses, and they all think like horses.” She paused, frowning as she looked for the right words to explain what she meant. “They all have the same instincts,” she finally said, “and they all have the same basic needs.”
The Saddle Club couldn’t find a way to argue with that, although none of them was exactly sure what Mrs. Reg meant.
“You mean,” Carole said at last, “a horse will never act like a cow?”
“Right,” said Mrs. Reg. “That’s exactly it. A horse is a horse is a horse.”
“Horses and cows are a little bit alike,” Carole said thoughtfully.
“Sure, they both eat grass,” Stevie said. “I eat apples, and so does Belle, but that doesn’t make me a horse! I guess I understand what you mean, Mrs. Reg, but I’m not sure that it matters. The wild ponies still had to come from somewhere. One of the stories must be true.”
They began heading back down the trail. An opening in the brush gave them a clear view of the beach fronting the Assateague Channel below. Another band of wild ponies played on the sand, and the girls and Mrs. Reg stopped to watch them.
“Look at the foals!” Carole cried. One pinto baby darted out of the pack of horses and began to gallop across the sand. Looking over his shoulder, he suddenly seemed to realize how far he was away from his mother. He wheeled around so quickly that he almost stumbled, and went galloping back to her side. Another pair of foals reared up, nuzzling each other in mock battle, and a piebald mare gave a great heaving sigh and flung herself down on the sand to roll with abandon. She stood up, shaking herself, and sand flew in all directions. The foals shied away.
Without warning the band took off, galloping madly across the sand. The mares leaped incoming waves, and the stallion, at the rear, trumpeted. They ran until they were nearly out of sight—the girls could see glints of sunlight from far down the beach as the horses splashed in the surf.
“Why do you think they did that?” Stevie asked, a note of awe in her voice. “I didn’t see anything to scare them.”
Lisa and Carole shook their heads. Mrs. Reg laughed. “Why would they need a reason?” she asked. “It looked like they were having fun.”
“Fun?” Stevie asked. Her eyes took on a faraway, unhappy look. Carole nudged Lisa, who nodded.
Everything they did reminded Stevie of Belle.
THE NEXT DAY was their last on the islands. The Saddle Club helped Dorothy and Nigel hang curtains in all of the newly painted guest rooms. Then they helped Mrs. Reg plant geraniums along the brick path to the front door. At lunchtime, Mrs. DeSoto handed them three large paper bags. “You girls have been such a big help this week,” she said. “I don’t know what we would have done without you. So I made you a little picnic lunch—it’s a specialty of the DeSoto Inn!”
The Saddle Club agreed that they’d like nothing more than to take their picnic to the beach on Assateague. They told Mrs. Reg where they were going, rented bicycles in town, and headed for the ocean. The beach was less crowded than it had been the first time they visited it, and they quickly found a secluded spot on the sand to enjoy Mrs. DeSoto’s delicacies.
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�I’m starving!” Carole said, spreading the contents of her bag—a fancy sandwich with the crusts removed, a salad in a little plastic box, a fresh peach, soda, and a handful of shortbread cookies—out onto her beach towel. “Boy, does this look good! Don’t you think so?”
“It sure does!” Lisa opened her soda and took a big swallow. “Stevie?” She noticed that her friend hadn’t opened her lunch. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Stevie looked up. “Oh, sure,” she said. Lisa and Carole frowned. Stevie had been strangely quiet ever since the wild mare had kicked her. She’d stared out the window for most of the afternoon that they’d spent making cookies. Even yesterday with Mrs. Reg, she hadn’t acted like her usual rambunctious self. Now she wasn’t interested in lunch! It wasn’t like her at all.
“Are you feeling okay?” Carole asked. “Are you sure that pony didn’t hurt you worse than you’re telling us? Or is it Belle?”
“You should tell us,” Lisa said gently. “Stevie, whatever’s bothering you, we want to help.”
For a moment Stevie looked surprised; then she smiled at her friends. “I’m not hurt,” she said. “I’ve been trying to act like nothing’s been wrong, but I guess you two know me too well for that to work. But I’m not hurt—if anything, that pony kick helped bring me to my senses.” She pushed her lunch bag aside and her smile dissolved. “Lisa, Carole, I’ve been so worried! What if I’ve really messed up? I wanted to catch up with Phil so much that I forgot how important my horse is! What if somehow I’ve really hurt Belle?”
Lisa thought that Stevie looked ready to cry. She leaned over and put her arms around her friend.
“You didn’t hurt her,” Lisa said. “Belle knows how much you love her. I’m sure she’s okay.”
“I’m sure, too,” Carole said, reaching over and giving Stevie’s arm a squeeze.
Stevie wiped a few stray tears from her eyes. “Really? Do you really think so?” She looked up at Carole. Carole knew so much about horses—why hadn’t she asked Carole for help before?
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