A farmer stood next to the wagon. Lucky had seen the man before, but she didn’t know his name. He lived on the outskirts of town. He looked like most of Miradero’s farmers, his skin leathered from working in the sun. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a flannel shirt. A pair of work gloves were tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Miradero, welcome to the closing ceremony of our harvest festival,” Mayor Gutierrez said. “I hope you all had fun today.” People clapped and cheered. Snips could barely contain himself, jumping up and down. He rushed forward and tried to peer into the crate.
“Is he in there?” Snips asked. “Is he?”
The farmer blocked Snips’s view. “Hold on there, young feller. You don’t want to upset Mel, do ya? He’s particularly sensitive.”
“Sorry,” Abigail said as she pulled Snips away from the wagon.
Who’s Mel? Lucky thought. The breeze shifted direction. And what’s that awful stink? She glanced across the way and made eye contact with her dad. He shrugged, as confused as she. Cora held her third-place ribbon in one hand and daintily plugged her nose with the other.
The mayor continued. “Shall we begin?” The crowd applauded again. With a grand sweep of her arm, Maricela handed her father a rolled parchment, which he unrolled and read. “Hear ye, hear ye,” he began. “Let it be known that on this day, the thirtieth of October, as summer fades into memory and the autumnal season is upon us, the people of Miradero gathered together to ask Miradero Mel a question of the utmost importance: Will winter be sweet or will winter be severe?” He lowered the scroll and looked at the crate. “What say ye, Miradero Mel?”
Everyone looked at the crate. Silence fell over the crowd. Lucky chewed on her lip. What was happening? Was something happening?
Nothing was happening.
The mayor raised his voice. “What say ye, Miradero Mel?”
Lucky couldn’t take another moment of not knowing. She felt like she was going to jump right out of her skin. She leaned over and whispered in Snips’s ear. “Who is Miradero Mel?”
“He’s the pig!” Snips loudly proclaimed. Those around him responded with shushing sounds.
A pig? That explained the odor. Lucky stood on tiptoe, trying to see into the crate. What was the pig supposed to do?
For a few more moments, nothing kept right on happening. Finally, the farmer stepped up to the wagon and rapped his knuckles on the top of the wooden crate. A few grunts sounded from inside. Lucky leaned forward, as did everyone else. A pink snout appeared. Then a pink face with a pair of small black eyes. Snips giggled. The pig looked around, then backed up, disappearing again.
The farmer stuck a finger in the air. “He ain’t comin’ out!”
People began to murmur. “Uh-oh,” Abigail said.
“What’s going on?” Lucky pleaded.
Pru took pity on her. “It’s this weird tradition. I don’t know when it started, but pigs are supposed to be really smart. If the pig comes out of his house, it means winter is going to be mellow. But if the pig doesn’t come out, it means winter is going to be bad.”
Lucky snorted. “A pig can’t predict the weather.”
“He’s never wrong,” Abigail said matter-of-factly. “I win cakewalks and Miradero Mel predicts the weather. Some things can’t be explained.”
Mayor Gutierrez held up his hands to silence the crowd. “The pig has spoken. Let it be known that on this day, Miradero Mel did not come out of his house. Therefore, he has decreed that winter will be… severe.” The mayor then walked into the crowd and began shaking everyone’s hand. “Remember that a vote for me is a vote for progress.”
Severe? Lucky frowned. That seemed overly dramatic. Miradero had been hot all summer, and now, in the middle of autumn, the days were still pleasant and mild. Even when it rained, the clouds only hung around for a short time. The only coolness to be felt was in the evenings. Back in the city, there’d be snowstorms with snow piled up three steps high. People had to shovel snow off their stoops. Traffic stopped until the roads were cleared. These folk don’t know what a real winter is, Lucky thought.
Seriously, how bad could it get?
5
A few weeks passed and on a Sunday afternoon, the PALs went for a ride to Carver’s Woods. Lucky and Spirit led the way, with Pru on her trusty mare, Chica Linda, and Abigail on her goofy but loveable Boomerang. A little cluster of rain clouds had passed through that morning, dampening the ground and filling the air with the scent of wet dirt. The distant mountains were delicately sprinkled with snow, like powdered sugar on cake. Lucky was surprised to see the snow, but it was too far away to worry about. A new chill hung in the air. She wondered if she’d soon need a heavier coat.
The girls rode a familiar trail, as they’d promised their parents. This promise was due to the near disaster a few months back, when Pru and Abigail had ridden into Filbert Canyon, unaware that railroad workers had laid dynamite. Spirit and Lucky had ridden after the girls to warn them. But they’d all ended up nearly crushed by falling rocks. Thanks to Spirit’s instincts and guidance, they had found their way to safety. And now the girls were supposed to stay in approved areas only.
“I hate this new rule,” Pru complained as she rode behind Lucky. “How long are they going to hold that whole dynamite thing over our heads? We survived, didn’t we?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Abigail said. “I don’t like those steep trails in the canyon. And Boomerang doesn’t like them, either.”
“I’m just happy to be riding,” Lucky said. She hadn’t purposely taken the lead, but Spirit had. She guessed it was because he was used to leading his herd. Chica Linda and Boomerang didn’t seem to mind.
She glanced back over her shoulder. Chica Linda held her head high, observing the surroundings. A palomino, her golden coat and white mane looked very pretty beneath the autumn sky. Boomerang, however, was looking down, searching for food. A brown-and-white pinto, he was the smallest of the three horses, and the plumpest. Pru often called him a “walking stomach.”
“Aw, come on, Boomerang. Do you have to eat everything?” Abigail complained. Spirit and Chica Linda slowed, allowing Boomerang to catch up.
Like Pru, Chica Linda took riding seriously. And if there was a race, she’d do her best to win. Like Abigail, Boomerang didn’t much care about winning. He was just happy to be outside. He was the happiest horse Lucky had ever met.
Lucky remembered a conversation she’d once had with her aunt Cora, about how people often chose dogs that matched their personalities. Their neighbors, back in Philadelphia, were excellent examples. Mr. Bunyon, a stout, jowly man who grunted his dissatisfaction, chose a bulldog. Mrs. Tolstoy, who kept her hair in tight ringlets and spoke in a high-pitched voice, chose a pampered, yappy poodle as her companion.
It seemed to be the same with people and their horses. Boomerang was as sweet as Abigail. And Chica Linda was as competitive as Pru.
But what of Lucky and Spirit? She hadn’t chosen him, and he didn’t belong to her. They’d found each other quite by accident. But in ways she was still discovering, they were similar—most especially in their desire to run free.
“Let’s gallop!” Pru called, as if reading Lucky’s mind. With a gentle kick, she urged Chica Linda forward. The palomino flared her nostrils and bolted ahead of Spirit. Pru’s braid bounced and she let out a loud “Whoopee! First one to the boulder wins!”
“Oh no you don’t,” Lucky said. She didn’t need to kick Spirit. He paused a moment for Lucky to tighten her grip, and then he was off. Soon, he and Chica Linda were racing side by side. Pine trees flew past as the horses dodged branches and rocks. Lucky held tight, her smile so wide she actually swallowed a bug. “Bleck!”
Lucky had become a skilled rider in a very short time, thanks to lessons from Pru. But mostly, thanks to Spirit. It was unusual for a wild horse to allow a rider. If he wanted, he could buck her off at any time, as he had with Al Granger and the ranch hands who�
�d tried to break him. He’d tossed those grown men across the corral as easily as a child tosses a ball. But the thing was, not only did Spirit allow Lucky to ride him, he helped her by slowing down if she started to lose her balance. And if she leaned in the wrong direction and started losing her grip, he would adjust his stride. Not only was Spirit patient with Lucky, he seemed to enjoy their rides as much as she enjoyed them. How could she know this? Well, he kept coming back for more!
Pru had pointed out that one of the reasons Lucky had learned so quickly was because she rode bareback. “Without a saddle, you’re forced to rely on your balance or you’ll slide right off. It’s kinda like do or die,” Pru had told her. Bareback meant that Lucky had nothing to hold on to but Spirit’s mane, and it also meant she could feel his every move. So they’d learned how to read each other’s body language. They’d learned to move together. It was true teamwork, requiring grace and skill.
There were others in town who didn’t understand why Lucky would want to ride bareback. “It’s much more comfortable in a saddle,” Al Granger had argued. But Lucky refused to stick a saddle on Spirit. It went against his nature. And, as it turned out, it went against her nature, too. When she rode her dad’s horse, or one of Mr. Granger’s horses, the saddle and reins felt weird, like a person who writes with her right hand and is suddenly told she must write with her left.
A jackrabbit hopped across the path. Chica Linda slowed for a moment, then both horses skidded to a stop at the base of the boulder. “Tie!” Lucky called.
“Yeah, yeah, but one of these days…” Pru’s face was flushed from the ride. She eased Chica Linda toward a stream for a drink. “One of these days she’ll beat Spirit.”
“Maybe,” Lucky said. “If Spirit lets her.”
It was good-natured ribbing. Both girls knew that Spirit was probably the strongest horse they’d ever meet. As he dipped his head to drink, Lucky turned around to check on Abigail. She and Boomerang were taking their time, enjoying the trail. Lucky nudged Spirit closer to Chica Linda. “Pru?”
“Yeah?” Pru pulled two pieces of jerky from her pocket. She handed one to Lucky.
“Thanks.” Lucky didn’t eat right away. Something was bugging her. If there was one thing Lucky Prescott did not like, it was an unanswered question. “So, Pru… at the harvest festival…”
“Uh-huh.” Pru tore a piece of jerky with her teeth.
Lucky hesitated. Was she being too nosy? But she remembered the expression on Pru’s face when Maricela had called her a loser. “Why are things so bad between you and Maricela?”
Pru’s eyes narrowed. She chewed, then swallowed. “It’s not important. Just let it go.” Pru’s tone was a warning, like a DO NOT TRESPASS sign.
Lucky suddenly felt bad. She had overstepped. Even though it felt as if they’d been friends their whole lives, it had actually been only a few months. Pru had a secret and she didn’t want to share it. Lucky would have to accept that and respect Pru’s privacy.
But still, the question clung to her thoughts like a stinkbug.
Pru smiled at Lucky, letting her know things were okay between them. A loud group of ravens landed on the boulder and started fighting over the remains of a snake. As Spirit and Chica Linda turned away from the stream, their thirsts quenched, Abigail and Boomerang rode up. Abigail’s nose was pink, as were her cheeks. “It’s getting cold out here,” she said.
“Sure is.” Lucky shivered as a chilly breeze tickled the back of her neck. After waiting for Boomerang to take a drink, the PALs turned back toward town.
“Dad says we need to get the barn ready for winter,” Pru told them. “There are some holes that need to be repaired before the snow comes.”
“Snow?” Lucky asked.
“Miradero Mel said winter’s going to be severe, so that means snow. Lots and lots of snow.”
“The last time we got a lot of snow was when we were little,” Abigail said. “But I remember how much fun it was. The pond froze over and Mom took me ice-skating.”
“And we made snowmen,” Pru said.
“Snow ladies,” Abigail reminded her with a chuckle.
Pru laughed. “Oh, that’s right. But that was so long ago I’d almost forgot.”
Lucky pulled her jacket collar up around her neck. “Back in the city it snows every winter.”
“Every winter?” Abigail asked. “You’re so lucky. Ha ha, get it? So lucky?” Abigail accepted a piece of jerky from Pru. “What did you do when it snowed?”
“Well, we’d make snowmen—and snow ladies—too. And I loved starting snowball fights! But we’d usually get yelled at by our headmistress, Madame Barrow, if she saw us. And then we’d have to stay inside.”
“Well, I’m not staying inside if it snows,” Pru declared. “No way!”
Lucky placed her hand on Spirit’s neck, absorbing the warmth. “What will Spirit’s herd do if it snows?” she asked. “Won’t they freeze?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them,” Abigail said. “Look at Spirit. He’s already growing his winter coat. They all are.” It was true that the three horses looked shaggier than usual, but Spirit was definitely shaggier than Boomerang or Chica Linda. Lucky figured it was because those two horses had a barn to stay in when it got cold and had no need to worry about freezing on the open range.
Lucky ruffled Spirit’s coat. “Maybe this will keep him warm, but what will the mustangs eat if everything gets covered in snow?”
Before Pru or Abigail could answer, a whistle sounded. They’d emerged from Carver’s Woods just as a puff of smoke appeared on the horizon. Forgetting all about her unanswered question, Lucky sat up straight. “It’s here!” she said. The arrival of the train meant one thing for Lucky—one very important thing. She grabbed Spirit’s mane. “Come on!”
6
Miradero’s train station was nothing like the one back in Philadelphia, which was always crowded with travelers and vendors, with multiple trains arriving and departing every day. But in Miradero, the train only made its appearance a few times a month. It wasn’t unusual for the townsfolk to stop whatever they were doing and hurry toward the station, just to see who was disembarking.
While Pru and Abigail waited outside the station with the horses, Lucky made her way through the station house and out onto the platform. Steam swirled like mist from a fairy tale as the large black engine arrived. Sputtering and hissing sounded as the train came to a stop. The conductor stepped out, took off his hat, and nodded at Lucky. A few people disembarked and were greeted with hugs by family. But Lucky was looking for one person in particular.
“Samuel!” she called with a wave.
“Hello, Lucky.” Samuel, the stationmaster, was an easygoing, friendly man who insisted that everyone call him by his first name. He wore a pair of overalls and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “You looking for anything in particular?” he teased, knowing full well why she was there. She nodded.
Lucky followed Samuel to the first car. He opened the door, reached in, and grabbed a large mail pouch, which he handed to Lucky. Then he grabbed two more pouches. They carried them into the stationhouse. “Go ahead,” he told her while he helped some passengers with their luggage. Lucky shuffled through the first pouch until she found a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. “For Miss Lucky Prescott, care of JP & Sons Railroad Office, Miradero,” she whispered, snatching it like a hungry squirrel snatches a peanut. “Thank you,” she called to Samuel, then ran outside.
“Is it from Emma?” Abigail asked.
“Yes.”
Abigail reached into her saddlebag and took out one of her famous oatmeal cookies. She broke it into three pieces and fed a piece to each horse as a little treat. Then, while the horses lowered their heads and grazed, the girls sat on a bench with Lucky in the middle.
Emma Popham was Lucky’s best friend back in the city. They’d been schoolmates, and she was Lucky’s main connection to her old life. Lucky’s grandfather, James Sr., still li
ved in Philadelphia, but letters from Emma were much more exciting. Emma and Lucky shared secrets, hopes, and dreams. And Emma also sent packages—books, to be exact. Lucky untied the twine. A note was tucked underneath.
Dear Lucky,
I was at the bookstore and I found the latest Boxcar Bonnie book and guess what? It’s about a horse! So, of course, I knew you’d want to read it.
There’s not much new here. Madame Barrow still doesn’t approve of my reading choices. She says that if I read too many adventure stories, I will develop an overactive imagination and that will lead to trouble. She gave me a copy of her new book, How to Make Polite Conversation. It’s soooooo boring.
My dad bought a new carriage horse last week. He’s a palomino, like Chica Linda. I named him Captain Nemo. He’s a bit temperamental but I think that’s because he doesn’t know us yet. I’m bringing him lots of treats and he’s starting to trust me. He goes crazy for carrots.
I miss you so much. Can’t wait to get your next letter and hear about all your adventures.
Love,
Emma
P.S. My parents promise that I can come visit you in the spring. I’m so happy! I’ll get to meet Pru and Abigail. And Spirit!
“She’s gonna visit?” Pru asked. “That’s great. I can’t wait to meet her.”
Emma’s upcoming visit was the best news ever. Lucky opened the paper wrapping and held up the slim novel. She read its title. “Boxcar Bonnie and the Missing Mustang.”
“Missing mustang?” Abigail frowned. “Can you imagine if one of our horses went missing?” They each glanced across the way, to the cluster of juniper trees where Chica Linda, Boomerang, and Spirit continued to graze. Lucky didn’t want to imagine such a thing. If something ever happened to Spirit…
She shook the thought from her head. “I’m sure the book has a happy ending,” she said. “They always do.”
“Girls!” Samuel stood in front of the station, a broom in hand. “Would you be able to do me a favor?”
Pru jumped to her feet. “Sure thing. What do you need?”
Spirit Riding Free--Lucky and the Mustangs of Miradero Page 3
