Carole was sorry she’d asked. She didn’t like the idea of somebody giggling at her dad. She felt as if Meg were giggling at her!
Max was in the hallway, supervising something in one of the stalls. Carole needed to talk to him alone. She walked over to him and waited to get his attention. As soon as she saw what was going on, her heart sank. Betsy Cavanaugh was showing her father how to put a leg wrap on a horse.
“Max, can I talk to you—uh, privately?” Carole asked.
“Sure,” he said. A questioning look crossed his face. “Let’s go to my office.”
When the door closed on his office, they both sat down and Carole began. “It’s about—”
“I know. Veronica. What she did at the meeting was totally wrong and then I saw that she really just abandoned Garnet and you ended up doing all the work. I don’t think I’m going to be able to change her, you know—”
“It isn’t about Veronica,” Carole interrupted. “It’s about my father.”
Max smiled. “It’s just great having him here,” he said warmly. “He’s so enthusiastic! He’s got everybody running in circles today. I love it!”
“You love it?” Carole thought she’d heard wrong.
“Every time I turn around, your father is right there, working with another Pony Clubber, one-on-one. It’s the best kind of instruction there is. Too few students get it.”
“It depends on who is doing the instructing and who is doing the learning,” Carole said.
“Oh, absolutely, but I can tell your father really knows how to teach and the riders love him.”
“Of course they love him. He’s lovable. He’s the greatest dad a girl could have. But, well, Max, don’t you think it might help him if he had a few, ah, riding lessons or something—you know, somewhere else?”
“No problem there, Carole. I’m doing a weekly class for all of the sponsors. Do you know, some of them really don’t know the first thing about horses?”
Now nothing at all made sense to Carole. There was no point in staying in Max’s office any longer. Talking to Max wasn’t going to help. No matter what anybody else said to her, she knew that her father didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t belong at Pine Hollow, and ultimately, he was going to make her look foolish. The fact that he was a neat, charming guy wouldn’t carry him for very long. Eventually, something would have to be done. Carole just hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to do it.
ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, Lisa’s parents picked her up once again after school. It was beginning to feel like a comfortable, familiar, but unproductive routine.
This time, the seller was a trainer. Her father had found an ad in the Sunday paper that sounded promising. The horse was a four-year-old bay. Mrs. Atwood was surprised that Lisa was willing to consider a bay, since she thought Lisa only wanted a chestnut. Lisa and her father decided not to try to explain it to her. Mrs. Atwood wasn’t stupid, but horse trading was not something that made much sense to her.
“He’s a beautiful horse,” the trainer, Mr. Michaels, said. One look at the horse and Lisa had to agree. His rich brown coat glistened in the sunshine. “I’ve been working with him and he learns fast. You’re an experienced rider, aren’t you, Mr. Atwood?” he asked.
“Me? Not at all. The rider in the family is Lisa. The horse is for her.”
“Oh,” Mr. Michaels said. Then he furrowed his brow. “I want to sell this horse, but I want the buyer to be happy. This is a good horse and he could be a great show horse someday, but he’s young. He needs an excellent rider—one who can continue training him and who has the time and the patience to do it right. I mean, I believe there’s championship material here, but I’ve only been able to start the work. Another year or two, who knows? That’s one of the reasons I’m not asking for what I think he’ll be worth someday. He really needs more training.”
Lisa looked at the horse again. His name was Pretty Boy and she thought it was the perfect name for him.
“Think you want to try him anyway?” Mr. Michaels asked. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
Lisa nodded. She couldn’t resist.
It took a few minutes to tack up Pretty Boy. He fidgeted when the saddle went on and he fought the bit as Mr. Michaels bridled him. Lisa didn’t want to notice these things. All she wanted to do was to be in the saddle of the beautiful horse. And very soon, she was. She took the reins in her left hand and climbed on board from the mounting block.
Pretty Boy was tall, dark, and handsome. From where Lisa sat, she was mostly aware of how tall he was. At Pine Hollow, she was used to riding Pepper, who was at least a full hand shorter than Pretty Boy. Horses are measured in hands, which are four-inch units. Pretty Boy pranced about nervously. Lisa leaned forward and patted him on the neck reassuringly. “Easy, boy,” she said. He calmed a bit.
“You know what you’re doing, I see,” Mr. Michaels said. “Now try walking him in a circle. He and I have been working on that.”
Lisa signaled the horse with her legs and he responded. She signaled for a right turn and he ignored her. Instead, he stepped backward.
“Be firm,” Mr. Michaels said.
Lisa knew that, but it wasn’t always easy to do. She signaled again, and he ignored her again. She tapped Pretty Boy on the left front shoulder with her riding crop. At last he turned right and began walking around the ring.
After the second time around the circle, she decided to try a trot. She nudged his belly to get him going. It worked, and he got going, but at a canter, not a trot. For what it was worth, it was a perfectly wonderful canter. Lisa felt as if she were on a rocking chair, gracefully shifting back and forth. But it wasn’t what she’d told the horse she wanted him to do. Lisa gave him a slow-down sign with her reins and seat. He slowed to a walk.
It took four more tries to get Pretty Boy to trot and sustain the gait. A trot was a jogging gait and on most horses it was bumpy. Somehow, Pretty Boy managed to do it smoothly.
“Hey, this is a great gait!” Lisa said. “And I love the canter, too, only I don’t like it when he wants to canter and I want to trot.” Lisa brought Pretty Boy to a walk and rode him over to where her parents and Mr. Michaels were standing.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mr. Michaels said.
“Yes, it is. He’s a wonderful horse, but not for me.”
“You two seem to be speaking a language I don’t understand,” Mrs. Atwood said. “What’s going on here?”
Lisa tried to explain. “Mom, he’s a great horse—or more accurately, he will be a great horse, but he’s not fully trained. See, what I need is a horse I can ride. I just have a couple of hours a week to ride, and I’d spend them all training, not riding, if we bought Pretty Boy. Now, if you wanted to think about making a pasture out of our backyard and building a stable there, where I could have the horse right there—and maybe have a trainer come two or three hours a day to work with Pretty Boy so he’d be ready for me to ride when I wanted him—”
Mrs. Atwood looked horrified. “Are you actually suggesting that we change our entire—”
“Hold on, there, ma’am,” Mr. Michaels said. “Your daughter’s right about what it would take, but I think she’s joking. She knows this isn’t the right horse for her. Am I right?” he asked Lisa.
“Right,” she said. “But if he’s still for sale when he’s five …”
“I’m hoping to find Pretty Boy a home for life right now. But I’ll keep you in mind.”
Lisa dismounted and helped Mr. Michaels untack the horse. As she did, she thought about the kind of owner Pretty Boy should have. She should be an experienced rider, but one not so set in her ways that she wouldn’t have fun with a spirited horse. Pretty Boy should belong to somebody who spent a lot of time with horses, maybe even worked with them for a living. He would need a shot at show riding, jumping, and hunting, all kinds of experiences. Lisa hoped very much that Mr. Michaels would be able to find exactly the right person for Pretty Boy.
“LISA, YOU’D BETTER com
e over,” Stevie said excitedly on the telephone Tuesday evening. “You’ve got to see what’s happening to my radishes!”
“Radishes? What radishes?” Lisa asked. She had been interrupted in the middle of her history homework and she hadn’t yet cleared her brain of the Wars of the Roses to shift into radish gear.
“You know, my radishes!” Stevie said insistently.
Then Lisa remembered Stevie’s science project. “Oh, those radishes. What is it? Is there a problem?”
“No, but they’re doing things. You have to see!” Stevie didn’t wait for an answer. She hung up the phone.
Lisa giggled to herself. When Stevie got excited about something, no matter what it was, it was almost impossible not to get excited with her. So much for the Wars of the Roses. She couldn’t keep the reds and whites straight from one another anyway.
Lisa grabbed a sweat shirt, told her parents where she was going, and was out the door before anybody could object. She wasn’t going far anyway. Stevie’s house was just at the other end of the block.
Thinking about Stevie made her think about The Saddle Club and the secret she was keeping from her two best friends. Some secrets were nice, but it depended on whom you were keeping them secret from. Lisa also knew that if she didn’t tell her friends, they’d find out about it somehow. Lisa’s mother would tell Mrs. diAngelo, who would tell somebody else—maybe even Veronica—and Carole and Stevie would be sure to hear about it. And the only thing worse than keeping a secret from her friends would be having her friends learn about it from somebody else—especially Veronica diAngelo! Lisa had to tell them soon.
“I will,” she said out loud to the cool evening. “I’ll tell Stevie tonight. Right now, in fact. Then it won’t be a horrible secret anymore and I can stop worrying about it.” Just saying it out loud made her feel better. She was practically skipping by the time she mounted the steps to Stevie’s house, and she was definitely skipping when she climbed the stairs to Stevie’s room.
“Look at these guys!” Stevie said, proudly showing Lisa one of her radish pots. “I mean look and see what Mother Nature has done here!”
Lisa dropped her sweat shirt on Stevie’s bed and joined Stevie at her desk, where the lamp on it was totally focused on “Pot Number One: Light and Water.” At first, Lisa didn’t see a thing. Then, when she took a closer look, she detected quite a few little greenish-white sprouts pushing up through the dirt.
“They’re growing!” Stevie said. “It’s really working. Aren’t they just so cute you can’t believe it?”
At first, Lisa thought that cute was a strange word to describe the tiny radish shoots, but the more she thought about it and the more she looked, the more she decided Stevie was right. “Definitely cute,” she agreed. “And how about the other pots?”
“Nothing.”
“Great, that’s just the way it’s supposed to be,” Lisa said. “See, I told you it would be easy.”
“I’ve decided something,” Stevie said. “As soon as this crop of radishes is ready to be harvested, I’ll call you and you can come over and have your choice of the bounty of my science experiment. I’ll even provide the salt—that is, if you like your radishes with salt. All because you’re a real friend.”
Lisa knew that Stevie said it to be funny and to thank her. Stevie was being so nice that Lisa felt guilty. It was time to be a real friend and tell Stevie her secret.
Stevie didn’t seem to notice that Lisa had something on her mind. “I was at the stable today,” she said. “I left my backpack in my cubby after Horse Wise on Saturday. So, of course, I had to go get it because I had my homework assignments written on the back of The Letter, which was still in the backpack. Anyway, guess who else was there? It was good old Veronica diAngelo. Was she there to exercise Garnet and take care of her, groom her, and things like that? No, she was not. She was there because she wanted to check the color of Garnet’s blanket against samples she had for a new pair of riding pants and jacket. She wanted to match her clothes to the blanket so they’d be color-coordinated when they had their picture taken together. Can you believe her?”
“No, I can’t,” Lisa said truthfully. “Sometimes it seems like we’ve seen everything, but when it comes to Veronica, I’m afraid we haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Some people deserve horses. Veronica definitely doesn’t.”
Stevie took out the chart she’d devised for noting the progress of her seedlings and carefully measured the tallest of the radish plants. It was three eighths of an inch high. She wrote that down and then wrote large zeros in the other columns. “It feels like a real accomplishment,” she announced, replacing the pots on the windowsill. “I’m actually going to have all the information I’m going to need to do this science project right. You are such a pal.”
“Thanks,” Lisa said. She didn’t feel like a pal. Stevie’s comment about Veronica and Garnet brought back all of her doubts about sharing her secret. Half an hour later, when Lisa returned to her own room and the Wars of the Roses, she still hadn’t told Stevie about her parents’ decision to buy her a horse.
“AN IMPORTANT PART of being a Pony Clubber is keeping your own horse’s health and maintenance book,” Max told the members of Horse Wise the following Saturday.
He handed each club member a folder with individual record sheets in it.
“You’ll need to fill these out and bring them to every rating and, even more important, you’ll need to keep them up to date. As you’ll see, the sheets require certain specific information. Judy is here today to help you all learn how to check on your horse’s health and fill out these sheets …”
As Max continued talking, Carole looked at her booklet. It was designed to be a year-long log of everything from the horse’s basic health, like his normal pulse rate and temperature, to the veterinary visits, cost of horse care, and income of the rider. Carole knew about the care book from the last time she’d been in a Pony Club.
“The first thing we need to do is to learn how to check a horse’s pulse,” Judy said. “Colonel Hanson, can you show us how to do this?”
Carole felt a nervous twinge in her stomach. If her father had read one of the three books she’d left on his bedside table last week, he might, just might, have learned what to do. Otherwise, it was going to be another embarrassing moment for her. She held her breath.
The colonel stepped forward to where Judy held Patch, a black-and-white pinto, by his lead rope. To Carole’s dismay, he grinned and reached down and put his hand against Patch’s foreleg, as if it were the horse’s wrist.
Carole groaned out loud. Nobody heard it, though. Everybody was laughing too loud. Carole hung back in a corner, hoping that nobody could see her, hoping, in fact, that nobody would know she existed.
“Nice try, Colonel,” Judy said. “But you flunk.” More giggles. “Anybody want to show this man what to do?”
A few hands went up. Judy called on Stevie. Stevie showed Colonel Hanson and everybody else the two easiest places to check a horse’s pulse. The first was in between the animal’s jawbones, at the curve of the cheek. The second was on the horse’s belly, right behind his elbow.
Stevie put her hand under Patch’s jaw, checked Judy’s watch, which had a sweep-second hand, and counted the beats for fifteen seconds.
“Twelve,” she announced. “Multiply it by four and get, uh—” She looked at Lisa, frantically. Lisa just gave her a dirty look. “Oh, yeah, forty-eight,” Stevie concluded sheepishly.
Judy and everybody else laughed. Then Judy had everybody come and check Patch’s pulse rate. When all the Pony Clubbers had done it, she turned back to Colonel Hanson. “Think you can do it now?” she asked.
“I’ll try,” he said, and then, to Carole’s relief, did it correctly.
Judy then proceeded to demonstrate how to check the horse’s respiration or breathing rate. This is important for a rider to know, because the respiration rate, among other things, is an indication of whether a horse is overheated or not.
After Judy had completed her instruction, each rider was told to fill in the record book for his own horse.
Carole picked up a pencil and headed for Barq’s stall. Barq wasn’t her very own horse, of course, but he was the horse she had been riding most recently at Pine Hollow. The horse she had ridden before Barq was Delilah, a palomino mare who was a wonderful horse to ride. But she had just foaled a few months earlier and was spending her days with her colt, Samson. Samson’s sire, or father, had been Veronica’s stallion, Cobalt. Carole had to pass their little stall and paddock on her way to Barq’s. She noticed Samson frolicking around the paddock, obviously in a good and playful mood. Delilah stood serenely nearby, watching him with one eye, and nibbling at grass sprouts. Sometimes horses seemed very human to Carole, and this was one of those times. Samson was like a rambunctious toddler, and Delilah his overtired mother. The sight made Carole smile for the first time since the Horse Wise meeting had been called to order.
She continued to Barq’s stall. It took her only a few minutes to check his condition and jot down the figures. Then she had to draw his significant markings. For Carole, that would take a little longer. Barq was a bay with Arabian blood, and he had a white blaze on his face that looked like a streak of lightning. That was how he got his name, because Barq meant lightning in Arabic. It was a tricky marking to draw. Carole turned over his water bucket, sat on it, and studied the horse so she could draw it properly. Drawing was not one of Carole’s strongest talents. In fact, she doubted that she’d be able to draw it properly no matter how hard she tried.
“Rats,” she said, breaking the point of her pencil on the point of the lightning streak. She’d have to go to Mrs. Reg’s office to sharpen it. Carefully, she fastened the stall door behind her and walked toward the office.
The whole stable was bustling with activity as all the Horse Wise members were trying to complete the work in their health-and-maintenance books. Judy was helping one young rider take her horse’s temperature. Stevie was checking to see if Topside had a tattoo. Even Veronica was working. She was sketching in Garnet’s color. Since she was a solid chestnut, it was fairly easy to do, but Carole had to give Veronica some credit. It was work.
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