The Painted Horse

by Bonnie Bryant

  FREE AS A BIRD

  Stevie wandered out onto the balcony to look through the huge window at Central Park. There’s freedom out there, she thought.

  If only she were on the other side of the glass. If only she were outdoors.

  Stevie looked at her watch. She had a whole two hours. She looked at the park. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break from all this culture. In fact, she owed it to herself. A breath of fresh air was all she needed.

  She walked through the Egyptian exhibit back to the main hall. To the right was the museum gift shop. Stevie could buy postcards later.

  She wiggled through the knot of tourists and hurried down the stairs. She ran along an endless fountain and turned left. Suddenly she was in the park.

  Fresh air. Freedom.

  Other Skylark Books you will enjoy. Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

  THE WINNING STROKE (American Gold Swimmers #1) by Sharon Dennis Wyeth

  COMPETITION FEVER (American Gold Gymnasts #1) by Gabrielle Charbonnet

  THE GREAT DAD DISASTER by Betsy Haynes

  THE GREAT MOM SWAP by Betsy Haynes

  BREAKING THE ICE (Silver Blades #1) by Melissa Lowell

  SAVE THE UNICORNS (Unicorn Club #1) by Francine Pascal

  RL 5, 009–012

  PAINTED HORSE

  A Bantam Skylark Book / March 1998

  Skylark Books is a registered trademark of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and elsewhere.

  “The Saddle Club” is a registered trademark of Bonnie Bryant Hiller. The Saddle Club design/logo, which consists of a riding crop and a riding hat, is a trademark of Bantam Books.

  “USPC” and “Pony Club” are registered trademarks of The United States Pony Clubs, Inc., at The Kentucky Horse Park, 4071 Iron Works Pike, Lexington, KY 40511-8462.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Bonnie Bryant Hiller.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-82576-6

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada.

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  I would like to express my special thanks

  to Helen Geraghty for her help

  in the writing of this book.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Bantam Skylark Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  “I BET STEVIE’S having lunch at one of those posh restaurants where models eat,” Lisa said.

  “But models never eat,” Carole said.

  “So they’re watching Stevie eat,” Lisa said with a laugh. Their best friend, Stevie Lake, was famous for her large appetite and for eating weird combinations of food, like blueberry sherbet with butterscotch sauce and chocolate-mint chips.

  Stevie, Lisa Atwood, and Carole Hanson were members of The Saddle Club. The club had only two rules: Members had to be totally horse-crazy, and they had to help each other out whenever possible.

  The three friends would have been doing something together, but Stevie had gone to New York City on a class trip. Normally, she never would have done anything school-related over a vacation, but this trip was giving her the opportunity to bring her grades up. And, Lisa and Carole knew, if Stevie’s grades slipped too far, she’d lose her riding privileges. Besides, going to New York sounded like fun.

  “She’s probably eating a buffalo steak,” Carole said.

  “Or hearing the latest gossip from Skye,” Lisa said. Skye Ransom was a well-known actor whom The Saddle Club had met when they had all been in New York together. His horse had run away, and The Saddle Club had helped him catch it. He and the girls had been fast friends ever since.

  When Skye had written The Saddle Club saying he was going to be starring in a Broadway show, Stevie had written back telling him a group from her class was going to be in New York at the same time. Skye had promised to introduce Stevie to the true glamour of the Big Apple.

  Lisa and Carole, on the other hand, were stuck in Willow Creek on a miserable rainy Wednesday. It was their vacation, just as it was Stevie’s, and they had been planning to ride all week. They couldn’t ride outdoors because of the rain, and the indoor ring was booked for classes and private lessons, so they were sitting in a stall at Pine Hollow trying to figure out what to do.

  “If I were there, I could help Stevie eat gourmet food,” Carole said.

  “I could help her ride in limousines,” said Lisa.

  “She really needs us,” Carole said. “Maybe we could talk our parents into sending us up to New York.”

  “What’s this?” came a voice. “Who’s going to New York?”

  They looked up and saw Max Regnery, the owner of Pine Hollow Stables, staring down at them. His blue eyes were stern. “Who wants to go to New York when there’s so much to do here?”

  “If we were ducks, there would be plenty to do,” Lisa said.

  “I guess you’ve forgotten that this Saturday is the Spring Tune-Up,” Max said. The Spring Tune-Up wasn’t a competition. After the winter, riders and horses weren’t ready for a full-scale horse show. The Tune-Up was a way of celebrating the end of snow and ice.

  “I guess there’s a lot to be polished,” said Carole glumly as she got to her feet. Usually Carole loved anything to do with horses—even cleaning tack. But the thought of Stevie in New York hobnobbing with stars and eating gourmet meals made polishing leather seem dull.

  “The tack has to be sparkling by Saturday,” Max said.

  Carole and Lisa looked at each other. Were they supposed to clean gear all week? This was vacation!

  As they followed Max to the tack room, horses pawed and snorted, sending out a smell that was halfway between a wet blanket and a soggy dog.

  “Phew,” Lisa said.

  Max’s blue eyes twinkled. “You’re right,” he said to Lisa. “The horses and ponies do smell bad. After you finish with the tack, you can start grooming them.”

  Lisa knew how much work was involved in grooming a horse on a rainy day. Their coats were sticky, so dirt and dander wouldn’t come out and their manes got tangled.

  “It’s not only humans who have bad hair days,” Carole said. “Horses do, too.”

  “That means that Starlight and Prancer need you even more than usual,” said Max, referring to their horses. “And while you’re at it, make sure that Belle is groomed, too.” Belle was Stevie’s horse.

  “Me and my big mouth,” Carole muttered.

  As they walked into the tack room, Lisa noticed that there were very few other riders around. Only total horse nuts would come to the stable on a day like this.

  “Don’t forget to use metal polish on the bridles,” Max said.

  “Of course not,” said C
arole.

  “And don’t forget to clean the undersides of everything,” Max added.

  “Don’t worry,” Lisa said. As if she and Carole would try to cut corners!

  Lisa looked around the tack room at the saddles—there were about a million—and the bridles—there were a trillion—and the halters—there were a zillion. She realized that she and Carole would be there all that day and all the next. “Where should we start?” she asked Carole.

  Carole ran a hand through her wavy black hair. “Let’s start with the halters,” she said.

  “The halters!” Lisa said. They were the least satisfying to polish. A lot of them were old, and they were made with leather that was strong rather than beautiful. No matter how much you polished a halter, it usually looked homely.

  Lisa knew that Carole wanted them to do the most boring jobs first. Carole is so disciplined, she thought. She always does the right thing—at least when it comes to horses. For a second Lisa missed Stevie horribly. If Stevie had been there, she’d have turned the whole thing into a game. They’d be laughing and throwing sponges. They’d have a good time and get the tack clean.

  “Why not?” Lisa said, letting the heels of her boots thud on the floor as she crossed the room. She gathered a load of halters and dumped them in a messy pile in the center of the floor. “This will only take a couple of years.”

  Carole got a bucket of water and a carrier with sponges, rags, saddle soap, and metal polish. “It won’t be so bad,” she said. “The leather is dry, but the glycerin in the saddle soap will soften it. Wait and see—it’ll be like magic.”

  “Yeah, right,” Lisa said.

  “I’ll do the metal. You do the leather,” Carole said.

  Doing the metal was the worst part because metal polish smelled bad and took a lot of rubbing. Lisa knew that Carole was trying to be nice. She picked up a halter with straps so old and dry that they were twisted. “They should throw this thing away,” she said.

  “That’s a great halter,” said Carole.

  Carole never met a piece of tack she didn’t like, thought Lisa.

  But fifteen minutes later the halter did look great. The saddle soap had softened the leather and made it supple. The metal polish made the buckles and rings shine.

  “You were right. Underneath the grime, it was a thing of beauty,” said Lisa.

  There was a rich, warm smell in the air. It was a little like the smell of gardenias, but more delicate, and a little like the smell of lilacs, but richer. Lisa looked up to see Veronica diAngelo. Her black hair was combed into a perfect pageboy, and her skin looked even creamier than usual. She was wearing a camel hair riding jacket and a pair of custom-made tan breeches, and her boots were gleaming. As far as Lisa knew, Veronica never came out in the rain. Lisa wondered what was up.

  “Hello, fashion misfits,” said Veronica.

  Lisa felt her hand rise to her hair, which was fuzzy from the dampness. She looked down at her jeans, which were streaked with bits of hay.

  “You look even worse than usual,” said Veronica.

  “It’s raining, Veronica,” Lisa said. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

  “My public wants me,” said Veronica, smoothing her hair. “How can I say no?”

  Lisa looked around, but there was still no one else there. “Excuse me? Maybe your public forgot to come.”

  “They’re on their way,” Veronica said grandly. “Listen.”

  Lisa listened, but all she could hear was the splattering of the rain.

  “Darlings,” said Veronica. “Today I become famous.”

  STEVIE WAS IN trouble. She couldn’t decide whether to wear the sunglasses with the black frames or the ones with the gold frames. She wanted to look totally sophisticated. She did not want to look like some out-of-town hick. She tried the glasses with black frames and checked her reflection in the window of the van. She looked mysterious … maybe a little dangerous. Then she tried on the ones with gold frames. She looked dramatic … practically dazzling. She decided to go with the gold. “Get ready, New York,” she muttered.

  Stevie sat back and sighed. This trip would have been perfect if Lisa and Carole had been with her. But since they didn’t go to Stevie’s school, Fenton Hall, there was no way they could have come. Stevie would have to have fun for all three of them.

  Veronica diAngelo went to Fenton Hall, but she had snootily refused to go on the trip. She’d said that New York bored her to tears. Stevie figured that when she got back with tales of hanging out backstage at a Broadway show, Veronica would die of jealousy. Just to make sure that this happened, Stevie had brought along a camera to document every exciting moment of her visit.

  Stevie fished her camera out of her backpack and passed it to Helen, the girl sitting next to her. “Snap me in these,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses.

  “Same old Stevie,” said Helen as she took Stevie’s picture.

  The van rolled to the top of a hill. On the other side of the river, Manhattan sparkled in pure silver light. Stevie sighed. She could feel an adventure coming on.

  The van went down into the Lincoln Tunnel. The yellow tiled walls seemed to go on forever. When the van came up, it was in the middle of Manhattan.

  “Bright lights, here I come,” said Stevie.

  The trip leader, Mrs. Martin, stood up at the front of the van and clapped for quiet. Usually Mrs. Martin was overserious, in Stevie’s opinion. But today she was wearing a black dress with a red scarf draped around her shoulders and looked practically snappy. Stevie smiled, thinking that New York had a good effect on everyone.

  “As we explore this morning, I want you to look with your hearts and not your heads,” Mrs. Martin said.

  “I can do that,” Stevie mumbled to herself.

  “I want you to find something that you really care about,” Mrs. Martin said.

  “That will not be a problem,” said Stevie, sitting back and thinking of how she was going to go backstage with Skye and meet New York’s most glittering people.

  “Be sure to keep notes,” Mrs. Martin said. “You think you’ll remember everything, but you won’t.”

  “Like I would forget,” said Stevie.

  The van traveled up a street crowded with sidewalk cafés. People were sitting outside enjoying the first warm spring sun. As they slowly rode past a bakery, Stevie saw trays of tiny tarts with raspberries and whipped cream, apples and raisins, and peaches and strawberries. “I could go for a snack,” she said.

  But the van kept moving. A block later it was in Central Park. The grass was just beginning to turn green. There were in-line skaters and joggers. Stevie smiled. In New York, everyone had fun.

  The van turned left and entered an underground garage. Stevie let out a whoop of joy.

  Helen turned and gave her a funny look. Stevie figured she must be nervous about being in New York. After all, it took nerve and style to cope with the city.

  Mrs. Martin explained that their bags would be delivered to the hotel. All the group had to do was follow her. They walked down a sidewalk to a brightly lit doorway. Mrs. Martin turned to the class and smiled. “Welcome to the most fascinating spot on earth.”

  “I’m ready,” Stevie said.

  But then she noticed that there was formal lettering on the doorway, and a man in a gray uniform was standing inside the door. As Stevie walked closer, she realized that if she took off her sunglasses, it would be easier to read the lettering. It said Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Stevie’s heart sank.

  “You’re going to love this, Stevie,” Ms. Dodge, the assistant teacher, said.

  “Yeah, right,” Stevie muttered.

  “What’s that, Stevie?” Ms. Dodge asked with a smile.

  “Uh, my shoes are too tight,” said Stevie, leaning down and loosening her laces.

  “We’ll be visiting two or three museums a day,” Ms. Dodge said. “Aren’t you thrilled?”

  Chilled would be more like it, Stevie thought. Bitterly
, she remembered that Veronica diAngelo had refused to go on the trip. Veronica must have known. Her father was on the board of trustees of Fenton Hall. He must have heard that the trip was one big museum visit and told Veronica.

  At this moment, Veronica was probably lazing in bed. Or riding her horse, Danny, at Pine Hollow. Stevie groaned.

  “What’s that, Stevie?” asked Ms. Dodge.

  “I guess I’m overwhelmed with excitement,” Stevie said.

  “Just wait until you see the museum’s treasures,” Ms. Dodge said.

  Mrs. Martin led them upstairs to a huge marble lobby and then through the Egyptian wing. Mummies weren’t so bad, Stevie thought. She could handle a mummy or two. But Mrs. Martin walked through the Egyptian gallery without looking right or left. She led the class through a glass door into a place with high windows, a lot of plants, and antiques.

  Stevie didn’t like antiques. She had an aunt who had a house full of them. The place was like one big booby trap. When you sat on something, it groaned and creaked and threatened to collapse. And if it collapsed, that would be thousands of dollars down the drain.

  Mrs. Martin gathered the class. “I know you’re as excited to be here as I am,” she said.

  “Totally,” Stevie muttered. She felt an arm go around her, and Ms. Dodge was smiling at her. She figured the smile was a warning and that she had better stop complaining.

  “I want each of you to pick an object,” Mrs. Martin said. “It should be from around the turn of the century, the late 1800s or the early 1900s. It should be something that has special meaning for you. When you return home, you’ll be asked to write an eight-page paper on it.” A groan went up from the class. “That includes illustrations. You can buy as many postcards as you want.” There was a collective sigh of relief. “But there must be at least four pages of text,” Mrs. Martin continued. Another groan. “You’ll have no trouble filling them,” she said. “During our trip we will visit many museums and other points of interest to help you understand your chosen object.”

  Points of interest, ha! thought Stevie. Points of boredom would be more like it.