At Top Speed (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  Text copyright © 2017 Kiersi Burkhart and Amber J. Keyser

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Darby Creek

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  The images in this book are used with the permission of: © iStockphoto.com/Piotr Krzes´lak (wood background).

  Front cover: © Barbara O’Brien Photography.

  Back cover: © iStockphoto.com/ImagineGolf

  Main body text set in Bembo Std regular 12.5/17.

  Typeface provided by Monotype Typography.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Burkhart, Kiersi, author. | Keyser, Amber, author.

  Title: At top speed / Kiersi Burkhart and Amber J. Keyser.

  Description: Minneapolis : Darby Creek, [2017] | Series: Quartz Creek Ranch | Summary: “For Ella, controlling her temper may be her greatest challenge at the ranch, followed closely by making a friend and learning to barrel-race”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016015782 (print) | LCCN 2016028344 (ebook) | ISBN 9781467792554 (th : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512430899 (pb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512426977 (eb pdf)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Ranch life—Fiction. | Temper—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.B88 At 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.B88 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016015782

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-38283-20008-8/12/2016

  9781512434736 ePub

  9781512434743 ePub

  9781512434750 mobi

  For every boy and girl who can’t believe in themselves . . . I believe in you.

  —KB

  For my Steamboat family, the real cowboys.

  —AK

  Chapter One

  Ella glanced once again at the map, then at the upcoming intersection. The green street sign read: BRIDLEMILE RD.

  “Dad!” she cried. “You’re supposed to turn here!”

  Ella’s dad yanked the steering wheel to the right, and the car’s tires growled over the gravel.

  “Could have said something sooner,” he said.

  “You’re driving so fast I didn’t even see the turn coming.”

  “Don’t critique my driving. You’re eleven.”

  Ella felt a wave of hot anger, starting in her chest and working its way up her neck. This always happened when they argued. It made all her limbs tense, and her mouth said things she regretted later.

  “I get to critique your driving when you get lost and make me two hours late for camp,” said Ella as they roared up the gravel road. The car passed under a giant iron archway reading QUARTZ CREEK RANCH, but she barely noticed it—she was glaring at her dad, who sat crouched over the steering wheel, equally furious.

  “It wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t taken so long to get ready at Uncle Nate’s house,” Dad said as they rolled through the gate, which someone had left open for them.

  Ella wanted to throw something. This was supposed to be her trip, but now Dad was ruining it, like he ruined everything when his temper got hold of him. They’d driven out from California and stayed with her uncle in Boulder just so her dad could see the ranch himself, in person, before he left her there for six weeks. He wanted to make sure it was safe and vermin-free, or something like that. Then they’d say good-bye—there were no letters or phone calls allowed until she flew home at the end of camp.

  “It’s your fault it took me so long to get ready,” Ella said as a big ranch-style house sailed by on their right. “You were the one who made me take out and repack my entire suitcase!”

  When the driveway appeared, her dad took another sharp turn, jerking Ella against her seatbelt. Then he stomped on the brakes, and when the car had come to an abrupt stop in the parking lot, he ripped the keys out of the ignition.

  “I made you repack because you don’t even know how to pack your own things properly.” Her dad threw open the car door and got out. Ella unsnapped her seatbelt, leaped out, and slammed her door behind her.

  “I packed just fine the first time, Dad!”

  “You brought way too much stuff.” The volume of his voice was steadily rising. “Who needs all that junk at a six-week camp?”

  “You don’t get it at all!” Ella found herself starting to shout, too, to match him. “Just because I don’t wear the exact same thing every day, like you—”

  “It’s practical, Ell,” her dad said, yanking open the trunk of the car. Behind them, the front door of the ranch house opened. A short, wrinkly woman in an oversized T-shirt and curly hair came out first, followed by a pine tree of a man with skin as dark as Ella’s, wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat. A few kids Ella’s own age peeked out the door, and another one gazed out the window at them.

  “Practical for you,” said Ella, starting to sweat in the hot afternoon air as her voice grew louder. “But you can’t expect me to wear a suit every day, too! At least what I wear shows I have a personality.”

  Dad rounded on her. “What do you know? It’s about looking professional so I can afford to put a roof over your head and food on the table.”

  “You go to work every day to pay for all the stupid stuff you buy online!” Each time her dad raised his voice, Ella raised hers more.

  “You’re such a brat!” shouted her dad, so caught up in the argument that he’d forgotten all about pulling her suitcase out of the trunk.

  “And you’re a workaholic!” Ella shouted back, starting to spiral with fury. Then she said the thing she knew would really make him mad.

  “At least when Mom was around, you came home sometimes.”

  Her dad’s face was turning a dangerous sort of red when the short, leathered woman hopped down the steps and jogged toward them, her expression stunned.

  “Hello there,” she said, interrupting. “Are you Ella?”

  Ella opened her mouth to speak, but her dad glared at her, then at the older woman. “I’m Jonathan Pierson,” he said, then pointed at Ella. “That’s my daughter. Ella.” He probably thought Ella’s skin color had confused the old lady, Ella figured. Since she was half Indonesian from her mother’s side, white people sometimes didn’t believe Ella was her dad’s kid, even though they had the exact same nose and mouth.

  “Yes . . .” the woman said, trailing off. “I know.” She turned to Ella and smiled. “Welcome to the ranch, Ella. I’m Ma Etty.”

  Ella smiled back. The old lady wasn’t confused—she had just been addressing Ella directly. Ella liked her already. She opened her mouth to respond, but Dad butted in again.

  “‘Ma Etty’?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Your first name is ‘Ma’?”

  “It’s a nickname.”

  “Hmm,” he said, unimpressed. He gazed around them at the parking lot—the beat-up old pickup, the horse trailers, the tractors. “I was expecting something a little different, for a . . . a rehabilitation camp. So, you’re going to work with Ella on her . . . temper issues. Right?”

  Ma Etty blanched. “Everyone gets a fresh start here at Quartz Creek Ranch,” she said. “We try not to dwell on what brought our kids here, but focus on
helping them grow once they’ve arrived.”

  “With horseback riding therapy?”

  “We don’t call it ‘therapy,’” she said. “It’s just horseback riding.”

  Dad opened his mouth to say something else, but a low, rumbling voice interrupted them.

  “Mr. Pierson,” said the ten-gallon-hat man, who had been on the porch a moment ago. He leaned over them. “Let me help you get your daughter’s things so she can join us for dinner—get your money’s worth, am I right?”

  “That’s a good point,” her dad said, backing away from the car to give the big man access to the trunk.

  “This is my husband, Will,” said Ma Etty. “Willard Bridle.”

  “Bridle?” Dad asked. “And that’s your real last name, too, I take it.”

  Ella wished he would just close his mouth and leave already. All the kids had come outside to watch her dad make a spectacle—four kids who looked about Ella’s age and two much older teenagers stood on the porch.

  Why did her dad have to be so angry all the time? A month and a half away from him was starting to sound like the best vacation of Ella’s life.

  “Yes, Bridle is our real last name,” said Mr. Bridle. He took Ella’s bags out of the car and set them down.

  “We’ll take it from here, Mr. Pierson,” said Ma Etty. “Dinner’s almost on the table, and the kids were doing introductions.”

  “Actually,” said a boy on the porch with a blond bowl cut, “we just finished ’em.”

  For once, Ella’s dad looked relieved. Ella was not. She knew first impressions were important—and now she’d made hers by showing up late.

  “Great. Thanks, Dad,” said Ella.

  Her dad wiped his forehead and stood back, not bothering to respond to her jab. He gave Ella a quick hug, and said, “Remember to keep your fists in your pockets. No hitting.”

  Why did he have to talk to her like she was seven? Ella jammed her hands in her front pockets and pulled away from the hug. Then she took her hands back out again and dropped them by her sides, shooting her dad a spiteful look.

  But Dad hadn’t noticed, and was already walking back to his car as he said, “I’ll leave her in your capable hands, Mr. Bridle, Mrs. Bridle.” He opened the door and climbed in. So much for taking a look around, Ella thought. “See you in six weeks, Ell,” he called out the open window.

  Then he peeled out of the driveway with a roar of the engine. The tires kicked up so much dust that everyone in front of the house burst into a coughing fit.

  One of the two older teenagers standing on the porch—a girl with long brown hair and a kind face—approached Ella.

  “Hey, Ella,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Madison, one of your riding instructors.” Ella shook her hand and glanced at the other teenager, a tall black guy now suddenly occupied with breaking up the boy campers, who were prodding and poking one another. He looked like he was probably the other instructor.

  “Come on,” said Madison, heading past Ella. “Let’s drop off your stuff real fast at the girls’ bunkhouse, and then we can eat.”

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  As Ella followed Madison across a patchy yard of grass toward two weathered old bunkhouses, she sized up the ranch.

  Chickens clucked and croaked in the nearby coop, and the whole place smelled like grass and sky and earth. The faint odor of cow manure reminded her that this place was chock-full of living things.

  Impressive. Now that she was here in person, it really lived up to the brochure.

  When her dad had laid out all the options for summer “rehab” camp, this feeling was what had endeared Ella to Quartz Creek Ranch—ranch life was supposed to be simple and beautiful, even if a little dirty.

  “Remember that camp isn’t for fun,” he’d said, trying hard to play the role of Dad by using his stern voice. “It’s punishment. You’re supposed to learn something.”

  Maybe to him it was punishment, but to Ella, it was a six-week vacation. Horses—check. Ella adored horses. Beautiful, graceful, fast.

  And no Dad? Check. She could start fresh here without his oppressive presence weighing her down.

  But more importantly, this place was the real deal. The original article. An authentic, working cattle ranch out in Somewhereville, Colorado. Big sky. Gigantic mountains.

  Check, Ella thought, looking around. This was just the place for escaping Petaluma for a while—and the strange, distant way her friends treated her.

  After Bianca.

  But so what if they were afraid of her now? Nobody should get away with talking to Ella like that—especially about her pigtail braids. Mom had showed Ella how to make them connect in the back like that when she was little. It was hard to do by herself, holding up a hand mirror while she braided so she could see what she was doing, but she’d managed.

  So of course Ella popped that trash-talking brat Bianca in the mouth when she insulted Ella’s braids. Friend or not, Bianca got what she deserved, as Dad would say. He didn’t tolerate insults either.

  Madison didn’t chatter as she led Ella to the girls’ bunkhouse. They ascended a short, creaky set of stairs and ducked inside. The place was clearly built to house more than just two girls—there was room for at least five, probably more if the table were scooted aside for another cot. Ella wondered if, by chance, the Bridles ever ended up with all girls and zero boys.

  That would be a big mess, Ella thought.

  Top bunks were always the most fun, so Ella headed for the one nearest the window. “I’ve got to grab something,” said Madison, pointing to the door of a separate room. “Just so you know, I sleep in there. Bathroom’s over there.” She gestured to the next door over. “Drop your stuff on whichever bunk you want, and let’s head back.”

  “Aye, aye, cap’n,” said Ella. She walked down the short row of bunks and stopped at the middle one, by the window. Perfect. The light came in just right so if she slept on the top bunk, she’d feel it on her face as the sun came up.

  If there was one silly phrase her dad always said that Ella actually took to heart, it was, Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man happy, healthy, wealthy, and wise. He said it often, with emphasis on the “wealthy” part.

  While Ella didn’t really believe in the proverb, the early morning was quiet and calm—if she could get up for it. Having the morning light pour in on her face would help immensely, she thought.

  Yes. This bunk would do great.

  But when she got up to the top of the ladder and set her suitcase down on the bed, she found another girl’s duffel bag already sitting at the foot.

  Ella picked up the duffel. This girl, whoever she was, would just have to be happy with the other top bunk by the door. Ella tossed the ratty duffel over to the next bunk, then set her own by the pillow and dropped back down the ladder.

  She met Madison at the door.

  “Burgers,” was all the trainer said, and they headed back to the ranch house.

  Chapter Two

  When Ella and Madison walked inside, everyone was already sitting at the table in the dining room, assembling hamburgers. Paintings of galloping horses hung everywhere, and the house felt welcoming and rustic.

  Ella took the one open seat left, between a brown-haired girl and a tall, wiry boy. The girl didn’t even look up as Ella sat down. She was too busy eating. The boy, who looked vaguely mixed-race—probably the way she looked to others, Ella thought—turned toward her instantly.

  “Hey!” he said, his mouth full of food. Ella leaned away a little as he kept talking, faster than she could keep up. “Bummer you got here late! We had homemade churros earlier, before dinner. It was great. I mean, dessert before dinner? Who gets to do that?”

  “Yeah,” Ella said, ignoring him as she forked the last hamburger onto her plate. She asked for the buns, which had to get passed from the opposite end of the table.

  “Everyone,” said Ma Etty from the head of the table, “let’s do another round of introductions rea
l quick for our newcomer, okay?”

  “Aw,” said the short kid with the awful blond bowl cut. “You can’t recapture improvised genius or it just feels recycled. My bit about hamsters and basketball wouldn’t be the same.” He spoke with a thick Texan accent.

  The tall boy next to Ella laughed. “How would they be able to hold it with those tiny, tiny hands?”

  Great. They already had inside jokes. By being late, Ella was even farther outside the circle than she’d thought.

  “Awright now,” said Mr. Bridle. “Let’s tell Ella your name and where you’re from. I’ll start.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Will Bridle, and I live on this ranch with my lovely wife, Henrietta.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. One of the boys covered his face so he wouldn’t have to watch.

  Madison waved to Ella. “We already met,” she said. “I’m Madison, I’m a trainer here, and I’m gearing up for tryouts again for my college swim team.”

  The teenaged guy next to her just dipped his head. “Fletch,” he said. “Horse trainer, bronc rider, human being. Nice to meet you.” Then he nodded to the Texan next to him, who sat across from Ella.

  “I’m Ash,” he said around a mouthful of hamburger, then swallowed it down with orange juice. “Ash Feezle. I’m from Dallas, home of the Cowboys. America’s Team.” He tapped the logo on the front of his Cowboys T-shirt. “Kind of ironic, now that I think about it . . . Sent away for the summer to become a real cowboy.”

  Introductions moved around the table to the boy sitting next to Ella.

  “I’m Drew,” he said, smoothing back some of his curly, dense hair. It was cut tall on top of his head and shaped kind of like a boat. “Drew King. Not like Martin Luther King. Everybody asks that because my mom’s black, but you know, that’s a stereotype of black people to just assume I’m related to MLK because my last name is King.”

  Ella had not assumed that, but she nodded anyway. Motor-mouth went on.

  “And I think everyone assumes that stuff about MLK because I’m from Atlanta, but it’s a great city. Everyone should make a point of visiting Atlanta, especially during peach season. We have every variety. Except maybe don’t come next year, because I accidentally rode my BMX bike through all those experimental saplings and kinda ruined them—”