“Señor Carrots is very, very sorry,” Snips called from the front of the crowd. “But there’s no sign on the door that says ‘No Donkeys Allowed’.”
“There is now!” someone hollered. A few people laughed.
The mayor shot Snips another long look. Then he raised his hands again and his big politician’s smile returned. “Without further ado, my lovely daughter, Maricela, our harvest princess, will now cut the ceremonial ribbon.”
Maricela.
Lucky narrowed her eyes. Maricela Gutierrez had been the first girl to greet Lucky when she’d arrived in Miradero last spring. Like Aunt Cora, Maricela’s mother had been raised in the city and attempted to maintain decorum in dress and manners. Lucky had been happy to meet a girl her own age, and she’d been willing to be friends. But Maricela had proved, time and time again, to be an unpleasant snob, holding herself above everyone else.
Today she wore her favorite yellow dress and a sash that read HARVEST PRINCESS. She also wore a crown of woven flowers. “Thank you, thank you,” she said, curtsying and waving to the crowd. People politely applauded. She continued to curtsy even after the applause stopped. Lucky rolled her eyes. Maricela really loved being the center of attention.
Mayor Gutierrez handed her a pair of scissors. With a dramatic flourish, she swept the scissors through the air, then cut the ribbon. But nothing happened. “They’re not working,” she grumbled as she tried to cut the ribbon again and again. “They’re too dull!” Both she and her father turned their backs to the crowd and a whispered argument commenced. Everyone leaned forward to listen.
“Why didn’t you get a better pair of scissors?”
“Those are the best scissors I could find. Let me do it.”
“No. I’m the harvest princess. This is my moment.” Their voices grew louder.
“Give me those scissors!”
“Stop it! Let go!”
“Be careful! Scissors are dangerous!”
“Dad! You’re ruining everything!”
After a brief wrestling match, the ribbon was finally cut. Both the mayor and his daughter turned back toward the crowd and smiled just in time to have their photo taken. Maricela curtsied again. Mayor Gutierrez climbed back onto the stool, stuck a finger in the air, and decreed, “The festival has begun!”
Lucky nearly jumped out of her boots. Finally!
3
“Lucky!”
“Hey, Lucky!”
Lucky didn’t need to spin around to see who was calling her name. She knew those voices by heart. They belonged to her new best friends, Pru Granger and Abigail Stone. In fact, the girls had started calling themselves the PALs, which stood for their names: Pru, Abigail, and Lucky. She looked beseechingly at her father. “Can I go join them?” she asked. Jim nodded and handed her a one-dollar coin. “Thanks!”
“Don’t eat too many sweets,” Cora said. “And don’t…”
Lucky cringed. Certainly there’d be a long list of things. Don’t run too fast. Don’t get lost. Don’t fall in a hole. But Cora didn’t finish her sentence. She took a long breath, then said, “Have fun.” Lucky knew it took a lot of self-control for Cora to hold back, so she gave her a big hug.
“See you later,” Lucky said, then hurried away to join her friends.
And there it was, her newfound freedom. Back in Philadelphia, Lucky had been chaperoned everywhere she went. Her housekeeper, Mrs. MacFinn, walked her to school. During inclement weather, the family butler, Mr. MacFinn, drove her in the carriage. Lucky never walked the city streets alone. But everything was different in Miradero. Lucky had tasted freedom and she was hooked!
Pru and Abigail smiled as Lucky ran up to them. Though they shared a keen love for horses and all things horse related, the two girls were quite opposite in other ways. Pru, with her long black hair, lanky physique, and outgoing temperament. Abigail, with her cropped blond hair, apple cheeks, and sweet disposition. Pru peered over Lucky’s shoulder and said, “Why is she still waving?” referring to Maricela, who was now standing on the stool. “Does she think she’s an actual princess?”
“She does look very pretty in that sash and crown,” Abigail said.
Pru folded her arms tightly. “Maricela’s been harvest princess three years in a row. Her mom made that sash.”
Lucky wondered about the sour expression on Pru’s face. “Do you want to be harvest princess?”
“No way,” Pru said, sticking out her tongue as if that idea tasted bad. “I’m just saying, Maricela’s acting so hoity-toity. Nobody got to vote. Her parents made up the whole harvest princess thing.”
As far as Lucky knew, Pru and Maricela had never gotten along. And when Pru got into a bad mood, it was difficult to get her out. So Lucky tried to change the subject. “This is my first harvest festival. What should we do first?”
Abigail’s blue eyes lit up. “Let’s go see the baby goats!”
Pru’s demeanor instantly changed. “I love baby goats!”
And so they set out to see every inch of the festival, for there was nothing better than a day spent exploring with good friends. Abigail—sweet, friendly, and always looking at the good side of things. Pru—fierce, brave, and competitive to her core. And Lucky—curious, eager, and happy to be on her own.
The morning activities proceeded at a brisk trot. The goats were adorable, especially the smallest one, which stood on its hind legs and nibbled on Lucky’s ribbon. At the apple-bobbing tent, the girls laughed when their faces and hair got wet. They played ringtoss and helped some of the younger kids on the pony rides. Abigail bought a bag of caramel corn to share and Pru got some candy apples. While they nibbled corn on the cob, they strolled between the craft booths.
“Why, hello there, young miss. I remember you.” A small, thin man stood beneath a sign that read DR. MERRIWEATHER’S MEDICINAL TONICS. Lucky had met him during her train ride. “My, my, don’t you look different these days? Looks like the West suits you.”
“It does,” Lucky told him proudly.
“And what about that lovely aunt of yours?” His already-round eyes got even rounder. “Does the West suit her, too?”
Lucky glanced up and down the street and spotted Cora chatting with a few women from the Miradero Ladies’ Aid Society. They were deep in conversation. “Yes, I think it does.”
“I’d certainly like to show her my new batch of stomach tonic.” He held up a small brown bottle. “This special tonic, to which I hold the exclusive patent, helps the most delicate of stomachs to digest the gassiest of foods. It also takes the itch out of flea bites and removes rust from frying pans. Would you like to give it a try?” He opened the bottle and held it out. It stunk like boiled cabbage.
“No, thank you,” Lucky told him, resisting the urge to plug her nose. “My stomach is just fine.”
“Abigail, it’s time for the races!” Abigail’s little brother, Snips, tugged on his sister’s sleeve.
“Wow, is it two o’clock already?” Lucky asked with surprise. She guessed the adage that “time flies when you’re having fun” was true.
“You promised to watch Señor Carrots while I race,” Snips reminded his sister.
“But he always bites me,” Abigail said. “Why can’t you leave him at home?”
“I can’t leave him. He gets lonely.”
Señor Carrots, who’d bitten half the town population and who seemed intent on biting the other half, pushed against Snips. He was trying to reach an object that Snips held in his hands. “He wants to eat it,” Snips complained. “Bad Señor Carrots!”
Lucky took a closer look at the object. It was a green zucchini, but four wooden wheels had been inserted into it and the center had been hollowed. “What is that?” she asked.
“It’s a zucchini wagon,” Abigail explained. “For the zucchini race.”
“I even got a driver.” Snips pointed to a dead beetle he’d stuck inside.
Lucky laughed. “Never seen that before.”
“Señor Carrots likes yo
u,” Snips told Lucky. “Will you please hold him while I race?”
Most people would not get near the notorious donkey, but he’d always been fond of Lucky.
“Please,” Snips begged, turning his pudgy little face up at Lucky and sticking out his lower lip.
“Sure.” She grabbed the donkey’s rope. “Don’t give me any trouble,” she told him, shaking a finger. He brayed, displaying his large teeth. Then he head-butted her, but not so hard that she lost her balance. She head-butted him back.
The temporary racetrack consisted of an inclined wooden ramp. At the top was a starting line, at the bottom, a finish line. The youngest members of Miradero climbed onto a bench and lined up their zucchinis. “They’re supposed to make the wagons themselves, but you can tell which ones the parents made,” Pru whispered to Lucky. Lucky snickered, for it was obviously true. And not everyone had followed the zucchini rule. One kid had used a small pumpkin. Another had used a potato. No one seemed to care that the rules had been stretched, which was one of the things Lucky loved about Miradero.
Jim had been chosen to judge the competition. He raised a flag, then hollered, “Ready. Set. Go!” Jim waved the flag and the kids gave their zucchinis a push. Some of the vegetable wagons rolled down the ramp; others wobbled. A few soared out of their lanes, crashing to the ground in a splatter of pulp and seeds. There were tears. There was disappointment. And there was glory. “The winner is”—Jim made a drumroll sound—“Snips Stone!”
Lucky started clapping, and just as she released her grip on Señor Carrots’s rope, the donkey bolted forward and ate the pumpkin wagon before she could stop him. “Señor Carrots!” she hollered.
“Señor Carrots is very, very sorry,” Snips said. But the donkey didn’t look sorry. He licked his lips, then eyed a yellow zucchini. The pumpkin’s owner was happy with her second-place ribbon, so there were no more tears.
Next came the flour-sack race. While Pru raced ahead of everyone, easily taking the lead, Lucky and Abigail bumped into each other, ending up in a big heap of laughter. As Lucky climbed out of her sack, she found her aunt standing over them. Lucky expected a lecture about dirt, but instead, Cora smiled. “I won third place for my jam.” She held up a white ribbon.
“Congratulations, Miss Prescott,” Abigail said.
“Yeah, that’s really great, Aunt Cora.” Lucky hadn’t seen her aunt looking this proud since she’d taught herself how to make a chocolate soufflé in a wood-burning oven.
“Hey, let’s go do the cakewalk,” Pru said as she joined them. They headed to the churchyard, where an array of cakes sat on a table. The girls each bought a ticket from Mrs. Perkins, the pastor’s wife.
“Abigail’s gonna win,” Pru said.
“How do you know?” Lucky asked.
“Because she wins a cake every year.”
Abigail shrugged. “It’s true. Last year I won a strawberry cake with whipped cream filling.”
“Abigail has the best luck of anyone I’ve ever met,” Pru said.
Lucky smiled wickedly. “Don’t be so sure. Remember, my name is luck.”
Mrs. Perkins played the fiddle. As music filled the air, the ticket holders marched in a circle. When the music stopped, they each turned over the rock closest to them. “I won!” Abigail shouted, holding up her rock, which had been painted with the word Cake. Lucky and Pru clapped. Abigail chose a chocolate cake with chocolate icing and raspberry filling. She carried her prize to a patch of grass beneath an old walnut tree. “How are we going to eat this?” she asked as the PALs sat in the grass.
Pru shrugged. “With our hands?”
“Aunt Cora would die if she caught me eating cake with my hands,” Lucky told them.
Five minutes later, with chocolate on their faces and fingers, the PALs moaned.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have eaten caramel corn, candy apples, and cake,” Lucky said. Cora’s voice chirped in her ears. Don’t eat too many sweets!
“Yeah, I don’t feel so good,” Pru complained.
“I feel sick,” Abigail moaned.
They lay down, side by side, and stared at the sky that shimmered between the walnut tree’s leaves, which were turning yellow. Lucky closed her eyes, hoping the cramp in her stomach would go away. She wondered what Spirit was doing. Was he racing across the prairie with his herd? Was he napping in a pool of autumn sunshine? Oh, why had she eaten so much cake?
“Hello, Lucky. Hello, Abigail.”
Lucky’s eyes flew open. Maricela stood over her. Lucky sat up. “Did you see me cut the ribbon?” Maricela asked. She adjusted her crown. The flowers were starting to droop.
“Yeah, I did,” Lucky said.
Abigail also sat up. “I like your sash,” she said sweetly.
“Oh thanks. Well, guess what?” Maricela’s yellow dress billowed as she did a twirl. “I’m going to be in the newspaper. That’s right. On account of the fact that I’m the harvest princess. There’s going to be an entire article about moi.” She glanced at Pru. “Moi is French. It means ‘me.’” Pru groaned and rolled onto her side, facing away from Maricela.
Lucky wondered why Maricela was making such a big deal. The Miradero Gazette was a tiny paper, about four pages printed once a month. The headlines were things like “New Chicks Arrive at the General Store,” or “Turo’s Cousin Comes for a Visit.” In fact, it seemed like they needed things to write about. But Maricela was acting as if she’d been interviewed by the New York Evening Post.
“I guess they think I’m important, being the harvest princess and the daughter of the mayor.”
“Wow,” Pru mumbled. “Can I have your autograph?”
Maricela narrowed her eyes. “You’re jealous,” she told Pru.
“Am not.”
“Are too. You’ve always been jealous of me.”
Pru scrambled to her feet and faced Maricela with a look of defiance. “For your information, Maricela, I have never been jealous of you.”
“Oh really?” Maricela smiled smugly. “Even when I got the lead in the play? Even when my speech was chosen for Founder’s Day?”
Pru’s expression fell.
“Some people are winners and some people are losers,” Maricela said in her singsong way. “And you’re a loser. A sore loser.”
Pru’s face tightened into a scowl. Her arms went stiff and she balled up her fists. Abigail scrambled to her feet and darted in front of Pru. “Hey, Maricela, would you like a piece of cake?” Abigail asked pleasantly, clearly trying to lighten the situation.
Maricela flicked her long auburn hair over her shoulder. “I should think not. Too much sugar is bad for you. It gives you pimples.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather have pimples than be covered in stinkbugs.” Pru pointed to Maricela’s shoulder, where a green stinkbug was crawling. Maricela squealed and flicked the bug away. Then Pru pointed to another that was on her sleeve. Maricela squealed again.
Where were those bugs coming from? Lucky’s gaze traveled to the top of Maricela’s head. “They like your flowers,” she said, pointing to the crown.
“Or maybe they like you,” Pru told Maricela. “I sure hope they don’t crawl into your ears.”
Maricela tore the crown off her head and dropped it to the ground. “Stinkbugs do not like me! That’s a mean thing to say.” Then, with a quick turn on her heel, she marched away. Pru snickered.
“What’s the deal with you two?” Lucky asked.
“We don’t get along,” Pru said. “It’s always been this way.”
“You shouldn’t let her get you so worked up,” Abigail said, gently placing her hand on Pru’s arm.
Pru sighed. “I know. But she gets under my skin like a bug bite.”
Lucky couldn’t blame Pru for getting annoyed. Maricela was definitely a difficult personality. But Lucky suspected that Pru wasn’t being totally honest. Something had happened. Something was not being said.
A bell clanged. Abigail clapped her hands. “Yay,” she cried out. “It’s time!
”
“Time for what?” Lucky asked.
Pru’s mood immediately lightened. “It’s the best part of the festival.”
Abigail grabbed Lucky’s hand. “Come on!”
4
Everyone hurried toward the clanging bell, like cattle to a feeding trough. The air buzzed with excitement. Wide-eyed kids raced to get there first. “Gather ’round, gather ’round,” Mayor Gutierrez called from the steps of Town Hall. “The time has come!”
“What’s going on?” Lucky asked, but Abigail merely gave her a mischievous smile. Lucky looked to Pru, but Pru offered no clues.
“You’ll see,” she said mysteriously.
Lucky had no idea what to expect. She forgot all about her tummyache as Abigail led her into the crowd.
“Let me through. I’m little!” Snips hollered as he jabbed with his elbows. “I wanna see!” Abigail cleverly followed in her brother’s wake, as did Lucky and Pru, until they found a prime spot at the front of the crowd.
Lucky looked around. Once again, the mayor stood on a stool, waving his arms for attention. Maricela and Mrs. Gutierrez were at his side. Maricela fidgeted and scratched her neck, then checked her sleeves for more bugs. Her mother told her to stop fidgeting. A wagon was parked in front of the town hall steps. A wooden crate sat inside. Lucky flared her nostrils. A weird scent hung in the air.
Spirit Riding Free--Lucky and the Mustangs of Miradero Page 2
