Then the bombshell! On the night of Twi’s latest triumph a long distance call cleaved the darkness while the banner still fluttered in Dr. Sandy’s office. She didn’t recognize the voice on the phone; it was a telegram call from Dick. Without any explanation it said, “Am sending Twi home.”
Before Sandy could ask a question, the phone went dead and a busybody mechanical voice said: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.”
Chapter 14
HOME AGAIN
Mornings with dew on the grass and Chincoteague colts rolling in sand and sun—this was Stolen Hours—each hour precious. And Twi was back!
Not everyone accepted her at first. “This is our territory—who is this interloper?” Patches, Pie, and Piper all seemed to say. Even Sunshine eyed her own daughter with misgiving.
For Sandy, having Twilight on the farm again would have been an unmixed blessing, if only she had some explanation from Dick Rank as to why he had sent Twi home. But the only excuses he ever gave her were unsatisfactory ones, and after awhile she stopped trying to guess at the real reasons. The new task that occupied her mind was figuring out what Twilight’s next challenge was to be.
Twi had her own time adjusting to a life of leisure. For a while she went back to running along the fence lines as if she were continuing her training. Skidding to a stop at the corners, spinning on her haunches like a true cutting horse, and racing back again was her only preoccupation in life. It seemed she had spent so much time training and competing, she had forgotten how to play. Idleness, routine, and scenery were not enough for her. But gradually the tranquility of the farm seemed to take hold of her. Scattered woods with oak and sweet gum, hickory, dogwood, and pine trees were there for exploring, as though for the first time. Even the pond was peaceful and soothing. Twi drank and then rolled in the long grass. At last she slept, and quiet returned to Stolen Hours Farm.
The Chincoteaque ponies seemed to settle down, too. They must have realized that Twi was not a stranger after all.
Just as Sandy, Pam, and Chris went back to their normal daily routines, a real stranger came all the way from England to inspect Stolen Hours.
His name was Mr. Derek Sutton, and he was a dignified English gentleman who had become somewhat portly with age. He was now a retired thoroughbred trainer and steeplechase rider gone out to pasture with his horses.
Actually, he had come to the United States with the hope of moving his family to Florida to see if this kind of life would suit him and his elderly gelding.
Andrew, who also hailed from England, treated the Englishman with respect, allowing him to roam at will. Sandy returned from her office one evening, and was surprised but gracious when she found an Englishman playing with their rottweiler hound and looking fully relaxed and at home.
After a few pleasantries, Sutton said, “Your man gave me free rein to take an overall look at Stolen Hours.”
Sandy smiled. “He has that privilege,” she said.
“Would you have any objection to my setting up a beginning cross-country jump course through your woods? You see, Dr. Price, I’m stabling my elderly gelding at the small inn where I’m staying. He’s in need of exercise, and so am I!”
Sandy thought for a moment. “This might be just the thing for Twi.” Out loud she said, “Yes, of course you may, on condition that you’ll try our pinto, Twilight, along with your gelding.”
Sutton was not enthusiastic, but he did manage to mumble, “Harumph, I’ll give it a go.”
To his surprise and Sandy’s delight, Twilight jumped the pond and low logs with ease. She’d be perfectly at home on a beginning course.
“Hmm,” said Sutton, shaking his head. “You know, of course, that it would take years of training for her to negotiate the big jumps . . .”
Sandy jumped in, as he hesitated. “What would be her limitations?”
“The biggest drawback,” he said, biting off each word, “is her size. She’s too small to carry a big man like me and still have enough power to clear the jumps. And then there’s her color, of course. It doesn’t help. I call it more clownlike than regal.” With these words Sutton refused the conditions. Then with a tip of his hat he went on his way to investigate other possibilities.
Chapter 15
NEVER?
Once again, Sandy was left wondering what to choose for Twilight’s future. Like a cat, she could have nine lives. She could be an endurance horse, race horse, calf-roping or barrel-racing horse, harness horse, hunter or jumping horse—or a three-day-event horse, the decathlete of the equestrian world!
Or, Sandy told herself, Twi could finish what she’d already begun.
“It’s hard finding the right slot for her,” Clayton O’Quinn told Sandy one day. “Twilight is not an easy horse to classify.”
“I know,” Sandy said. “She’s one of a kind, and I love her for that. It’s part of what makes her great. You know, in the far-off future, I don’t rule out the Olympics.”
“Begorry!” O’Quinn lapsed into his Irishness. “You dream big, Sandy. But the question is, what will she do now?”
“For now, Clayton, maybe she should complete her cutting chapter,” Sandy said quietly.
“I was thinking the very same thought, even though the girl at the Pinto Horse Association told me that a pinto’s action has to be twice as sure as any other horse’s for the judge to even look at it. She says there’s never been a pinto cutting horse that was a winner.”
“Never?” Sandy smiled. “What a fickle word!”
• • •
Fate plays a big role in our lives. It must have been fate that prompted Sandy to pick up a horse magazine, one day soon after her conversation with O’Quinn, and turn to an article about a cutting-horse trainer from Dothan, Alabama. His name was Buddy Tate and he was scheduled to judge a show right near Ocala on Wednesday next. He was touted as one of the most knowledgeable cutting-horse trainers.
Before Sandy could forget the spelling of Dothan, she pulled out her road map and traced the route from Apalachee Bay, on up the Chattachoochee River to Dothan. Then with red ink she circled the date of the Florida show on her calendar. Over the black numerals she wrote Twilight’s future?
On Wednesday afternoon Sandy could hardly wait to say good-bye to her last patient. A short time later she was rubbing elbows with owners and horse people of all ages and sizes. She watched two pintos in the competition, but neither won so much as a pink ribbon. “Could it really be true that a pinto’s color works against him?” she asked herself.
After the show was over, Sandy joined the long line of folks wanting to meet Judge Buddy Tate. He looked tired, as if he wanted to bolt for home, but he blotted his brow and managed a smile when it finally came Sandy’s turn. That was all the encouragement she needed.
“Our Twilight is a tornado, even if she is wearing clown’s colors,” she announced without any other opening. “And she’s ready to show her stuff.”
Judge Tate glanced at his watch. “You live near here?” was the only thing he asked.
“About thirty minutes away,” Sandy replied breathlessly.
“Okay. Lead the way.”
At Stolen Hours, Chris and Pam had just finished sloshing water over Twilight. They earned part of their allowance by grooming the horses after school. The day had turned hot and muggy, and Twi was enjoying her bath without any of her usual fidgeting.
A rub-rag still in his hand, Robert hastened to meet Sandy and the judge as they got out of their cars. When Sandy introduced him to Buddy Tate his eyes widened in awed respect.
“He’s here to see Twilight,” Sandy explained.
Robert swung into action. He snapped a lead rope to Twi’s halter and began trotting her in an ever-widening circle. Twi was in her element. She tossed her mane, arched her tail, and pranced as if she were leading a parade.
Pam and Chris clapped noisily. Sandy gave them a shushing look, and all waited silently for Judge Tate’s reaction.
&nbs
p; The answer came with agonizing slowness. “Quarter horses take all the ribbons.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Sandy wiped her sweating palms on her pants legs and waited for him to go on.
“She’ll be soft after not working awhile.”
“I know that, too.”
Then he shook his head and gave a suppressed laugh, as if surprised at his own impulsiveness. “There’s something about Twilight’s spirit that impresses me. I believe I could put a happy ending to her story.”
Sandy’s heart bumped into her throat. The kids let out a cheer.
Three days later Twilight was shipped to Dothan, Alabama. The lively way she hightailed it into the van without urging was proof enough that travel and adventure were her lifestyle.
Chapter 16
JUDGE TATE
Almost before Twilight had time to settle in, Sandy was on her way to Dothan. She missed the spunky mare that much. When she arrived, trainer Tate was riding Twi around and around in the big open pen.
It was clear that he was enjoying Twilight’s free-flowing trot and hated to stop. But when he did he was eager to talk.
“Doctor Sandy,” he said, patting Twi’s shoulder as he rode over to greet her, “I’m delighted with your one-of-a-kind pinto! She has a class and style all her own.”
Sandy grinned like a proud parent.
“And she’s so fresh,” Buddy Tate went on. “She isn’t burned out at all. How do you account for that?”
Twilight began whuffing Sandy’s hand. Her warm breath smelled grassy and good. Sandy smiled at the ticklish feeling.
“For the first two years of Twi’s life,” she explained, “she ran wild and free on Stolen Hours Farm, the way her forebears did on Assateague Island.”
“That’s it!” Tate exclaimed. “No pushing and training as a colt. I’ve seen many a burned-out two-year-old. Fact is I saw a pretty little filly shot dead at the track because of a broken leg too shattered for splints.”
Sandy shuddered. She had heard of the same thing. “What a horrifying waste of a young horse’s life. Sometimes, Mr. Tate, I think we people are pretty heartless about the wild things who share our world.”
Nodding, Buddy Tate loosened Twi’s girth strap and then laid her saddle over the fence rail. He hung her bridle on the post and turned her loose with an affectionate pat. Sandy watched as Twi tossed her head and sucked in great draughts of morning air.
“I have a story to tell you, Doc,” Tate said, breaking in on Sandy’s thoughts. “The other day, Twi out-and-out asked me to be her pal and protector.”
“How do you mean?” Sandy turned to him, eager to hear the story.
“It was during a blast of winter wind,” he told her, “that I stapled plastic over the outside windows of the stalls around the working arena. As the storm heightened, the plastic began to flap and crackle. I tell you, it was like hearing the cracking bones of some fierce demon! Anyway, Twi went into a wingding. I told her she’d have to get used to it.
“Now, Doc, get this. Your big brave tornado of a pony turned into a skittery kitten. She followed me around the arena, not letting me get more’n two feet away from her. I could see the fear in her eyes, she was that terrified. And then came the sound of one of the Brahmans, lowing over the storm.
“At that, Twilight’s whole body trembled with the question. It was as if she were saying to me, ‘You don’t expect me to work the cows by myself, do you? Please stay close. We’ll face those big-eared critters together.’”
Sandy burst out laughing. “Why, I can hardly believe it,” she said. “Twi always seems so fearless.”
“Well, now you know she’s normal. And she still has a lot to learn about cutting. But I will tell you this. Where she really excels is in her people sense.”
“How did you discover that?”
“One day my little girl begged to ride Twi,” Tate explained. “She had just mucked out three stalls, and this was the only reward she wanted. While I nervously watched, your pony was as gentle as a lamb. She knew just what to do and when.”
Sandy nodded. “That’s Twilight all over!”
• • •
Five weeks into her training Twilight went to her first big cutting show, in Montgomery, Alabama. She had only won the 500-level novice before, with Dick Rank as her trainer, but now Buddy Tate selected the 1500 for her first professional start. She placed second!
Twi quickly progressed to the 3000-level classes, then to the 5000—each time performing harder tasks, and each time winning. She learned to work without a bridle, just as the great horse Cutter Bill had done on television. It seemed she was well on her way.
Then fate stepped in again, and the pendulum that seemed to rule Twi’s life swung back from its giddy height. The owner of Buddy’s farm died suddenly, and Buddy and his family had to look for a new location. They found a suitable place near Stolen Hours Farm in Ocala, and with Sandy’s help, Buddy was soon in business again. But things were a little different in Florida than they had been in Alabama.
In her new surroundings Twilight shone. She thought and reacted more quickly than many people. If a calf just stood there bawling, Twi snaked directly toward her until the lazy thing went into combat. “That,” Buddy bragged, “is how Twi demonstrates her intelligence.”
It was also how she stirred up the competition. Owners of big, brawny quarter horses soon became very curious about this upstart in their midst.
One day when Sandy was walking Twilight to cool her down, a swaggering cowpuncher stopped her. “You own that paint, don’t you, lady?”
Sandy nodded.
“What in the world kind of breed is that?” he drawled.
“Chincoteague, of course,” Sandy said. “With a pinch of thoroughbred.”
“Where does she get her cow savvy?” he asked with a pained expression. “Certainly not from that combination.”
Sandy laughed, though in truth she felt as though Twi was being insulted. “Why not? She inherited the best of both.”
The man shrugged, muttering to himself, “Painted horses and lady owners shouldn’t be allowed.”
• • •
As time went by, it became clear that the quarter horse owners resented Twi’s flair for the spectacular. They found her cleverness hard to tolerate. They began not to accept her at the higher levels of competition. “Where would we class her?” they asked. “She just doesn’t fit in anywhere.”
Sandy’s friend Clayton O’Quinn analyzed the situation with his special wisdom. “It’s like this, Sandy,” he said. “Twi just isn’t built like the average cutting horse. She’s delicate and pretty. When she crosses the arena using that paradelike trot of hers, people think she won’t be able to cut out the calves. And when she does it, they think she’s a freak horse.”
Sandy swallowed bitter disappointment. Twilight’s spotted coat didn’t help. Her high spirits didn’t help. Her natural horse and cow sense didn’t help. And to top it all off, here in Florida, the Alabama trainer, Buddy Tate, was a rank outsider. The fact that he worked with a prize pinto pony like Twi was making his life difficult, too.
And so the odds won out. When Sandy asked Buddy to show Twilight one more time, he declined with an embarrassed look on his face. “I’m afraid my trailer’s full already,” he explained.
Again, a cold wind blew in Sandy’s face. Perhaps that was why Dick Rank had stopped working with Twi; maybe he’d had the same trouble with the prejudice against pintos.
But she refused to be daunted for long. “If Twi’s cutting career isn’t going to work,” she said to her farm manager, Andrew, “we’ll move on to plan B!”
“Plan B?” Andrew asked with a lift of his eyebrows.
“That’s right. Your countryman, Mr. Derek Sutton, seemed to think Twilight was too small and funny-looking to make a world-class jumper. Well, I intend to prove him wrong.”
“All right, Doc,” Andrew said. “Whatever you decide to do, I’m with you.”
“It’s all s
uch silly prejudice,” Sandy fumed. “What does color have to do with jumping? For that matter, what does size have to do with it? With her long strides, Twi will make it over the triple jumps with ease.”
“Especially with a woman aboard,” Andrew agreed.
Sandy felt the old thrill of excitement. “And that woman could be me.”
Chapter 17
KRITTER KORNER
Andrew and Sandy were quick to lay out a course through the woods to test Twi’s limits. First they piled up two logs, then three, and then around the bend another makeshift triple. The pond, of course, was a natural water jump and the gate that opened onto the show ring could easily serve as the high point.
Twi and Sandy both seemed happiest when at work, and work it was. First Sandy carefully walked Twi around the course so she could see what she was up against. Then Andrew tried Twi out, one jump at a time. Twi’s training, in stopping and starting, quickly stood her in good stead. One quick glance at the upcoming obstacle and she was ready for takeoff, needing only heels and knees to guide her.
Twi was in her element. The higher the jump, the better she liked it. Tossing and snorting she cavorted around the course as though she owned it. And, in fact, she did. Soon Andrew was just the passenger and Sandy the spellbound observer.
Then, wham! The teeter-totter of Twi’s way of life took over once again. Just as Sandy was thinking that Twi was ready to compete as a jumper, she noticed a slight swelling of Twi’s left foreankle. She called a vet immediately. The diagnosis was grim.
“I can’t believe,” the vet said, “that your mare is moving sound. The X ray shows an old fracture of the sesamoid bone. It will be okay to ride her, but too risky to push her into any serious jumping events. I’m so sorry.”
Poor Twi! Sandy felt sure that Twi was puzzled and wondering what had happened to spoil her fun. She clearly loved cross-country jumping.
Sandy sought a second opinion. The second vet ordered a farrier to put a set of pads on Twi’s feet to cushion the strain of walking, trotting, and cantering on that left foreleg. And he, too, warned, “No jumping!”
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