Before slipping the bitless bridle on Nickers, I made sure the new mare—it took all my willpower not to name her—had plenty of oats and water. Then I swung up bareback and rode Nickers to the bale of hay. Catman slid on behind me, as silently as he walks.
We rode out of the barn and into the snow. The ground didn’t feel icy or slippery, and the only flakes in the air now were blown from trees and roofs—pretend snow. I was glad for Hawk’s sake. She and Towaco would be safely out of the snowstorms by now. One less thing to worry about.
Ralph’s animal shelter was about a mile out of town, past our house, which is the last house in Ashland. Nickers walked until I was sure Catman wasn’t about to fall off. He didn’t put his arms around my waist and hold on like Dad had.
“You okay, Catman?” I hollered back.
He leaned back, his palms on Nickers’ rump. “Groovy, man!”
I let Nickers trot on the side of the road. Catman still didn’t hold on, although I felt him bouncing behind me. “I dig this big time!” he hollered to the sky.
My nose felt numb, but the rest of me soaked up the warmth of Nickers beneath me. We passed a huge manger decoration on the Pentos’ front lawn. They’re an older couple from our church. Mary and Joseph and the baby looked happy and safe, as if nothing could possibly go wrong in that scene.
It didn’t take long to reach the gray building in the middle of nowhere. If somebody missed the Animal Shelter sign out front, they might think this was a storage shack.
I rode up to the hitching post Ralph had put up for Amish buggies. Catman slid off, and I followed him, looping the reins over the rail. I kissed Nickers and stroked her beautiful Arabian jowls. “Be right back, girl.”
I walked in after Catman, and the noise almost sent me back outside. Dogs barked, cats screeched, birds squawked. Something I couldn’t identify growled. Something croaked. The overall effect was 10 times louder . . . and smellier . . . than Pat’s Pets.
“Ralph!” I yelled, glancing over cages and wondering where Catman had gone.
“We’re over here!” Lizzy’s voice came from behind the cat cages.
I ducked through rows of creatures until I spotted my sister and her friend Geri with Ralph Evans. He had something in his hand. I moved in closer and saw he was holding a frog, wrapping a white bandage around its long, green frog leg.
Geri glanced up, her eyes misty. “Hamlet broke his leg.” Her blonde hair was braided, just like Lizzy’s brown hair was. She stood almost as tall as my sister.
Lizzy put her arm around her friend. If they’d been horses, they would have been the Camargue sisters. Camargues roam wild in the marshes of France. They’re surefooted, but high-stepping and beautiful. My sister had probably walked here in the snowstorm, but every hair was in place. I felt my hair, which was about the same color as Lizzy’s. But mine had escaped from its rubber band without me noticing. “Hamlet will be fine now, right, Ralph?” Lizzy asked.
Ralph Evans is shorter than my dad but weighs more. At the shelter he wears a white lab coat over blue jeans. His thick, black hair is straight, but it can’t make up its mind which way to grow. Ralph’s small, brown eyes are set deep, close to his rounded nose. When he’s not smiling, which isn’t very often, it looks like all his features slide to the middle of his face. It might look weird on somebody else. But one look at Ralph, and you know he’d be a friend for life.
“There you go, Hamlet!” He handed the frog to Geri. “Good as new! He’ll be hopping in no time!”
Geri looked relieved, like she believed him. I guess Ralph Evans is a hard man not to believe.
“So what brings you and Catman to our little home-away-from-home for animals, Winnie?” he asked.
Catman appeared behind Lizzy. He was holding three kittens.
With Lizzy and Geri looking on, I told the whole story again—all about the gift horse, the e-mails, everything I knew. “Matthew told me Barker was on his way over here. I was hoping he was onto something.”
“Haven’t seen him,” Ralph said, stroking Hamlet with his finger.
“Well, I think it’s the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard!” Lizzy declared. “A gift horse! You should call her Gifty! Or Giftus . . . something like that anyway. I hope she gets over being sick though. Nobody should be sick at Christmas.” She stroked Hamlet too. The frog huddled in Geri’s hands. “Remember Mrs. Purdy in Iowa— or was it Indiana? One of the I states we lived in before coming here. Anyway, Mrs. Purdy’s cat got so sick—”
The door opened and in came Eddy Barker. “Ralph! I was—hey! You guys are all here, huh?” He came over to us and pulled a computer printout from his pocket.
“Did you find out who gave me the horse, Barker?” I tried to read upside down as he unfolded the paper.
“Well, those two e-mails came from the same person: Topsy-Turvy-Double-U.”
“That’s it!” I agreed, remembering now.
“And you never got one from him before—or her. I tried to e-mail back, but I just got an Out of Office reply.”
“So we’re back to nowhere,” I said, disappointed. I turned to Ralph. “Do you have any idea where this horse might have come from?”
Ralph shook his head. “I know folks who mistreat horses, but I wouldn’t send you there. I’ve called the humane society on them a couple of times. Not much else I can do. We’re not set up for big animals here.”
I knew that. Mansfield Animal Control took the big animals and “controlled” them.
“I need to get Hamlet home,” Geri said. “Sorry. Hope your horse gets better.”
Lizzy started to follow her. Then she turned back. “Ralph, tell them about the Christmas Eve service!”
Ralph grinned. “It’s going to be a good one. Special music by Miss Elizabeth Willis!”
“Cool, Lizzy!” Catman called after her, as she and Geri put on their coats and hats. He turned to Ralph. “What’s a Christmas Eve service?”
Other pastors might have said something like, “Haven’t you ever been to one?” But not Ralph. He didn’t miss a beat, but just explained. “Well, Barker’s going to read the Scripture about Jesus being born. And we have music, like Lizzy singing ‘Amazing Grace’.”
Lizzy, one hand on the doorknob, shouted, “That’s it! You can call that new horse Grace! Amazing Grace!” Then she and Geri left.
I didn’t want to give the mare a name, but I had a feeling this one was going to stick, like it or not.
“What else do you do?” Catman asked.
“We worship, eat, sing, pray, eat some more,” Ralph explained.
“Far out!” Catman declared, carrying the kittens back to their mom.
I wasn’t sure what to do next. Time was running out. Dad would be back, and I still wasn’t any closer to finding out who’d left the horse. “Barker, isn’t there anything else you can try?”
“I’ll hit a couple of reverse directories. You know, key in the e-mailer’s name and see if I get a hit on Ohio users. I’ll let you know if I come up with something.”
At least I could tell Dad that. I hoped it would be enough.
Barker stayed at the shelter to help Ralph with a dog somebody had dropped off. Catman and I rode Nickers home in silence, the only sound, the padded crunch of her hooves on snow. Somebody should record that sound and make a million dollars.
When we got close to my house, I was relieved to see that Dad’s truck wasn’t back yet. When Dad sold the ranch in Wyoming, we left almost everything, including our car, there. We’d driven the cattle truck all the way to Ohio, zigzagging through shorter stays in the I states—Illinois, Indiana, and Iowa.
Catman and I rode into the barn and slid off Nickers. I brushed her and turned her loose in the pasture. She ran off, her neck arched, tail flagged high, prancing and snorting. I could have watched her all day.
But that mare needed me.
Catman, seven or eight cats milling around at his feet, was already in the stall with the dapple-gray mare. “Check it out, m
an!” He pointed to the mare’s sagging belly. “You sure this dude’s grub deprived?”
“I was thinking she might have heaves. That would explain the belly and the cough.” I hadn’t had time to really examine the mare. I moved my hand up her chest to her neck and down her back. “Her spine’s sharp. She’s starving, all right.”
The mare watched me, her eyes like pond water after I’ve thrown in a rock. Wrinkles circled her eyelids like pond ripples.
I checked her hooves, which needed work. They flared, as if she’d foundered from neglect more than once, softening the hoof.
Catman was right. Gracie—the mare—sure did have a swollen belly. I touched it, and her ears shot back, saying, Cut it out!
“Sorry,” I told her, checking her rump and haunches, the stifle and cannon. “You’re going to be just fine.”
One ear flopped forward, saying, Promise?
She let me run my hand down her back leg. I squatted and peered underneath her. “Wait a minute. . . .” I blinked, then looked again. Her udders were tight, swollen. “Talk to me, girl.”
“What’s the skinny?” Catman asked, squatting on the other side of the mare.
“Winnie! Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Dad stormed into the barn.
I knew Dad was waiting for an answer, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I was remembering the way Gracie had walked in from the pasture. Her stride had been a bit too wide.
“Winnie!” Dad’s voice sounded foggy, the words coming from far away. “You can’t pretend I’m not here. I’m sorry. I really am. I wish you could have tracked down the owner and given him back his own problem.”
Veins stood out on Gracie’s hairless abdomen. I should have seen it before. “How could I have missed it?” I muttered.
Nickers came into her own stall and poked her head over the divider. She stared, cow-eyed. She’d known all along.
I stood up and moved behind the mare.
“Winnie, what—?” Dad started.
Just then Lizzy and Geri thundered into the barn. “We wanted to see the new horse!” Geri shouted, laughing.
I lifted the mare’s tail and let it down again.
“There she is!” Lizzy walked closer but stopped a few feet away. “Hi, Gracie!”
“Gracie?” Dad repeated. “You named her?” He strode to the stall. “What if I’d brought Mason back? Did you think about that? That poor kid’s already sick about losing Towaco. And now he can’t stop talking about this horse! Winnie! Turn around and look at me!”
I did.
“You can name the horse anything you want,” Dad said. “It doesn’t change a thing.”
“Well, then we need another name. Does that change anything?” I asked, all the clues finally coming together in my head.
“Another name?” Dad stared at me like I’d just shown up in his pasture with a bow around my neck. “What are you talking about, Winnie? Why would you need another name?”
“For another horse. There are two of them in this stall.”
Even Catman looked at me like I’d lost it.
So I told them. “This mare is about to have a baby.”
“Far out!” Catman cried from Gracie’s stall.
My dad stared at me, speechless.
“A baby!” Lizzy squealed. “That is so amazing! Amazing Grace!”
“I don’t think I ever saw a pregnant horse before,” Geri commented.
“She can’t be!” Dad ran his fingers through his hair. His stocking cap fell off. He didn’t pick it up. “You said she was old. She looks too old. Maybe you’re wrong. Could you be wrong, Winnie?”
I started to say no. Then I thought how that sounded. I shrugged. I’d seen a lot of horses in foal back in Wyoming. And I’d read every horse book that came into the library. I was as sure as I could be.
“So how long does it take?” Geri asked. “I mean, how long are horses pregnant?”
I was grateful for Geri’s questions, things that had answers—not like the questions I knew Dad was about to hurl at me. “Usually about 11 months, 340 to 350 days. But once we had a Tennessee Walker who foaled after 10 months and a Quarter Horse who went just over a year.”
“Wait now.” Dad paced the stallway. “How can we know if you’re right about this, Winnie?”
“We can get the vet,” I answered. “She needs the vet to check her out anyway.”
“That costs money,” he said, as if talking to himself.
Money was always tight around our house. Usually Lizzy got to keep her babysitting money, and I kept my money from working the Pet Help Line. But Dad had been fretting about bills all month. People didn’t seem to need as many odd jobs done in the winter as in summer, and Dad’s inventions hadn’t exactly been making the cover of Gizmo Magazine. I knew Lizzy used her own money to buy her Christmas-cookie-baking groceries.
“I have money for it, Dad.” It was true. I had my Christmas-shopping money. No reason I couldn’t scale back a bit on gifts if I had to. Gracie needed a vet. “Hawk paid through December, even though Towaco won’t be using up feed or anything.”
Dad walked up to Gracie and reached out his hand to pet her. The horse jerked back so fast, she plowed into me.
Dad stepped back and shook his head. “Call the vet.”
I called the vet, but Doc Stutzman was out on a call—to Spidells’ Stable-Mart. When I phoned Spidells’, all I got was the answering machine.
In the kitchen Lizzy and Geri were already starting a new batch of cookies. Whatever kind they were baking smelled great.
“Did you get the vet?” Lizzy hollered over.
“No. I’m going to ride over to Stable-Mart and talk to him.”
I hurried back to the stall and bridled Nickers. Catman, without saying a word, went to his hay bale at the end of the stallway. Nickers eased by the bale, and Catman jumped on behind me. We trotted the whole way to Spidells’.
Something icy passes through me every time I glimpse the huge, sterile stables where Spidells raise and board expensive “assets” and never let horses be horses. When we first moved to Ashland, I got a job mucking stalls there. It killed me to watch horses go bonkers because they only got outside a few minutes a day.
Summer Spidell, in a leather coat, her long, blonde hair tucked under a matching leather cap, leaped out from the stables as we rode up. Her face was as tan as it was in summer. She was the only person in Ashland who actually went into the Tan-Fast-ic tanning salon. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
“Nice to see you too, Summer,” I offered. “Is Doc Stutzman around?”
She glared at me as if she hadn’t heard my question. “I’ve been looking high and low for you, Winifred Willis!”
Note to self: Always avoid the highs and the lows.
“Well,” I said, swinging my leg over Nickers’ neck and dropping to the ground, “many people are looking for me.”
It wasn’t true. Many people probably do look for Summer Spidell. She’s part of the popular “herd” at school. They band together like Mustangs in the wild, fiercely guarding their precious brood from outsiders . . . like me.
Just then Catman seemed to realize he was riding solo on a horse that used to be called Wild Thing. He jumped off . . . the wrong side. “That was a blast, Nickers,” he whispered.
A shrill whinny pierced the cold air. It came from inside the stables. My first reaction was to run inside.
But Summer blocked my way. “It’s just Spidell’s Sophisticated Scarlet Lady. The vet is giving the horses their vaccinations.”
I felt sorry for Summer’s horse, a beautiful but high-strung American Saddle Horse. She squealed again.
“I want to know how many rolls of wrapping paper you’ve sold, Winifred.” Summer’s voice sounded pouty.
I’d forgotten about the stupid Christmas-wrapping-paper sale our middle school was doing. It was all Summer’s big idea. She’d been lobbying for our classes to do something at the end of the year besides the usual tour of th
e recycling center. When she came up with the idea that we all go to Cedar Point Amusement Park, Ms. Brumby, our English teacher, ran it by the school administration for their okay and then said we’d have to raise the money.
“I haven’t picked up my rolls yet,” I admitted. Each roll of fancy wrapping paper cost about four times as much as you can get it for at A-Mart. And since A-Mart is also owned by the Spidells . . . their paper was so expensive, we just wrapped our gifts in the Sunday comics.
Summer sighed, as if she just didn’t know what to do with me. “Talk to her, Catman!”
I grinned. She sure didn’t know the Catman. He was bound to find the whole sale thing as stupid as I did. “Yeah, talk to me, Catman,” I said, trying to imitate Summer’s whine. “Tell me this middle-school project is as dumb as I think it is.”
Summer looked shocked. “Catman already sold all of his rolls, didn’t you, Catman?” She smiled at him, her teeth so white I could have used them for a flashlight.
I glared at Catman, the traitor, then handed him Nickers’ reins. “I’m going to see the vet.”
“You can’t go in there!” Summer called after me.
I kept going.
Summer’s horse was in the indoor arena, the only part of Stable-Mart I’d like to own. Richard Spidell, her 16-year-old brother, was shouting at the horse as he jerked a rope attached to a chain-nosed halter. “Get over here, you—!”
Doc Stutzman stood a few feet away, loading two syringes. He was short and stocky, hatless, and already half bald. He’d only been a vet about a year.
Scar, my nickname for Spidell’s Sophisticated Scarlet Lady, was putting up a great fight, backing away as Richard jerked the leadrope. Then she reared, stepping toward him on her hind legs.
“Let me try,” I urged, coming up behind Richard. The mare’s eyes were white with fear and anger.
“Get out of the way, Winnie!” Richard shouted. “You’ll get hurt.”
He knew better. When I worked at Stable-Mart, I’d calmed horses he couldn’t get near. He just didn’t want to look bad in front of the new vet.
Gift Horse Page 3
