Pony Stories (3 Book Bind-Up) (Red Fox Summer Reading Collections)

by K. M. Peyton

  Faith was running before she knew it. Then she stopped, half-turned toward the house. Shouted, ‘Ben! Ben!’

  No sign of life about the van. Wolfie lay by the back porch. She cupped her hands at her mouth. Yelled at the top of her lungs, ‘BEN! HELP! BEHHHHHNN!’ Nothing stirred except Wolfie. He got up, stretched and yawned.

  Faith whirled about and ran again toward Beth. When she reached the fallen figure, she was out of breath. Beth lay on her side. One arm twisted oddly beneath her. Her face had no color. Protruding from her torn shirt by the collar was what Faith at first took to be the handle of something – a screwdriver – grayish with a jagged end. Then a bleat of fear slipped from Faith’s lips. It was a bone. A little circle of blood stained the shirt collar. The bone glistened wetly.

  Had Ben heard her call? Where was he? She had a momentary vision of him folding a T-shirt and closing a drawer.

  Faith knelt down in the rubble and put her head carefully against Beth’s chest. She could hear the healthy thud of Beth’s heart.

  She stood up and looked back toward the distant driveway. Her own heart skipped a beat. The yellow van was disappearing, the purrumble of its motor thinning out as it got farther down the drive. She hadn’t even heard it start.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she moaned. She moved to run toward the van, the house, the phone. And caught herself. Wasted motion. Too late. No Ben. No phone.

  The nearest neighbors were too far away. Lightning flashed a jagged opening down the sky. A terrible helplessness seized her, and the old, familiar smallness. She heard herself moan a long whimpering sound. At the same time, questions whirled in her head.

  How long would it take Ben Warren to reach the highway? How much time? Could she cut him off some way?

  She felt a tug at her sleeve and turned in panic. It was Cloud, looking contrite. He nosed her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Cloud,’ she breathed, and the helplessness dissolved. She straightened his reins. Her eyes scanned the distance where fencerow trees thinned out. Beyond the next field and meadow was a faraway blacktop road. It was Ben Warren’s usual route from the farm and connected with the highway. He would be at the bridge now. A minute or two and he would reach the dirt road. He still had to drive past Beth’s big sheep fields and an abandoned farm before he turned on to the blacktop.

  ‘Stay there!’ she commanded Cloud. She ran to Beth’s half dismantled mower and yanked off the tarp covering it. She dragged the tarp across the grass to Beth. Gently she spread it over the prone body, making a little tent over her face. Beth moaned but did not move or awaken.

  Then Faith straightened out Cloud’s stirrup irons. She guessed at the correct length and pulled them up three notches to fit her legs. Then she led the horse to a great rock where she could stand and hoist herself into the saddle. Her sneakers squished in the irons and her feet felt heavy. The stirrups were still too long, but Beth moaned again. There wasn’t time to fumble with buckles.

  In Faith’s mind was forming the only plan she could think of. She would have to be quick and cut across Beth’s two fields then across the neighbor’s meadow. She just might cut off Ben Warren’s van before it turned from the blacktop on to the highway.

  Lightning flashed again with an accompanying roll of thunder. Cloud’s ear shot forward. Faith could hear the quick breath that signaled the big horse’s panic. ‘Easy,’ she said. She stroked his neck. In quieting the big animal, she felt herself grow calm. Now. She turned him and pressed her legs into his sides.

  Cloud lurched into a frightened canter, unsteady. Fear and the familiar wobble returned to chill Faith briefly. Then she sat back and gave a light tug on the reins. ‘Easy, Cloud,’ she said. She could feel him relax. She patted his neck. ‘Easy.’ She guided him toward the line of trees that marked a long-gone fence.

  Now Cloud settled into a swift, light canter, comforted by Faith’s voice and the direction from her legs. It’s not all that far, she kept thinking to herself.

  It began to rain, heavy and sudden, big drops. Before they crossed over into Beth’s next field, horse and rider were both drenched. Faith could not see, through the curtain of rain, any sign of Ben Warren’s van.

  She leaned forward now and urged Cloud into a gallop. Across the field they flew, swallowing up the wet ground. No holes, she prayed, no holes, please. Briefly, the brown rabbit slipped in and out of her mind. Rain stung her eyes, blinding her. All the stray ends of her panic joined with the force of the great horse into a strange excitement. So this is how it feels.

  She marked her direction now, eyes squinted against the arrows of rain, by the dim outline of a white shed in the distance. Ben Warren would have to turn at that point.

  As she neared the end of the field, she suddenly noticed the wooden fence. Now she remembered. It separated Beth’s field from the neighbor’s meadow. No quick way round. She knew she would have to jump.

  Into her mind came the several commands Beth shouted most in her jumping classes. ‘Hands forward. Eyes up. Grab mane! Ask him! With your legs. Ask him!’

  It was too late to stop and there was no time to think. She aimed Cloud at the fence. Could he see it through the downpour? The rain whipped at her face. The pounding of hooves filled her ears. The fence seemed to come at them. Cloud’s powerful body gathered beneath her and she moved her hands forward. She raised her eyes into the stinging rain, into the drenched meadow beyond. She asked him. With a great surge, Cloud soared over the fence and landed with a satisfied snort on the other side. A yelp of alarm escaped from Faith. She felt herself slipping from the saddle. ‘Sit up! Don’t fall!’ said Beth in her mind. She struggled back into the wet seat. It took her several gasping seconds to settle Cloud down and find his rhythm again.

  The blacktop road, a short distance beyond the white shed, was empty. The image of the bloody bone protruding from Beth’s shirt grabbed her mind. Cloud’s firm sides were warm through her sodden pant legs. She urged him on. They tore across the meadow and then alongside the blacktop. The curve ahead told Faith nothing. But when they reached and rounded it, she could see, not far away, Ben Warren’s van slowing down for the highway access road.

  ‘Ben!’ she yelled. ‘Ben!’ Cloud sensed the urgency and pressed on faster.

  ‘Ben, WAIT!’ The van turned on to the access road.

  No! She was losing him. The yellow van, wheels spattering along the wet surface, began to speed up to join the highway traffic.

  ‘Ben! BEN!’ Cloud’s hooves clattered on the blacktop. They were too far away. She strayed to the left behind the van, praying Ben would check his rearview mirror.

  And he must have. Gradually, because of the slick pavement, Ben Warren slowed down.

  And stopped. The van’s hazard lights went on, blinking dimly through the rain. Horse and rider raced toward the blurry shape.

  As long as she lived, Faith would remember the look of astonishment on Ben Warren’s face through the rain-spotted window.

  The sun came out as the rescue squad gently eased Beth on to a stretcher. Ben had used the emergency frequency on his CB. Help came almost immediately. The ambulance had driven partway into the soggy field and, after Beth was securely placed inside, worked its way carefully back through the gate and out the drive. It was several minutes before Faith, untacking Cloud by the stable, heard them switch on the siren.

  ‘Nothing we can do right away, Red,’ said Ben Warren. ‘Best feed the animals.’

  By the time Faith and Ben Warren reached the hospital, Beth had already had a CAT scan and X rays. A young doctor told the pair that Beth had broken her collarbone, fractured her upper arm and suffered a concussion.

  ‘We’re putting her in a clavicle strap,’ he said. ‘It’s to keep her shoulders back so the collarbone can mend properly.’

  When Ben and Faith were allowed to visit Beth’s room, she was lying with her eyes closed. There was a strap hooked under her arms which disappeared behind her back. Her left arm was in a sling. She opened her eyes and stared groggily at them i
n a funny, cockeyed way.

  ‘Who painted the spill?’ she asked. Neither Ben nor Faith laughed. Does she mean ‘Who spilled the paint?’ Faith wondered.

  Ben Warren just put his hand on her shoulder and said in a quiet voice, ‘Beth.’ Then Beth smiled gently and went back to sleep. Her face was bruised but it made her look pretty, as if she were wearing rock-star makeup.

  The next time she woke, she tried to get up, saying, ‘Apollo didn’t get grained.’ Ben jumped up from his chair and said, ‘It’s all taken care of, darlin’.’ Then Beth sort of flicked her eyes like she’d been slapped and eased back against the pillow.

  ‘Oh, Ben,’ she said softly and went right back to sleep again.

  The third time she woke, she sounded like her old self. ‘Did anyone feed?’ she asked, meaning the animals. She never worried as much about whether or not humans had eaten.

  Ben said, ‘Yes, we’ve eaten.’ Then he laughed and Beth laughed. Faith giggled, relieved. She said, ‘They’re all fed, Beth.’ She received a grateful smile.

  Then Beth turned her head to the window. She sighed. ‘What a jerk I am,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ben Warren. ‘You break for animals.’ They both laughed again.

  Beth turned serious. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to work, Ben,’ she said. ‘We get in each other’s way so much.’

  ‘I’ll stick around for a while, lady,’ said the cowboy gently. He put his big, tan hand over hers. ‘We’ll see . . .’

  12

  THE SUMMER HORSE shows were over. Beth, her arm still in a cast to protect her mending bones, began to plan for a gold cup event in Canada near Toronto. Standing in the centre of the ring, she shouted instructions at her students, barely hampered by her plaster-frozen arm.

  Faith and Gem would be leaving in a few days. Gem still took lessons, but her drive had gone out of it. Faith had begun to take lessons once more and she was just getting into it. Unburdened by her former fears, she was advancing quickly. Beth shook her head in surprise or looked thoughtful. She had Faith jump some low cross poles and then the two-foot coop.

  Since the accident, Faith had often ridden Cloud cross-country and through the woods with other riders. She had felt easy and comfortable, as if she’d been doing it right along. But Beth no longer discussed the horses with Faith and Gem as before or included them in the planning. She was pressed for time. She ran late all day, and had begun to fall alseep in her chair at the dinner table again.

  Ben Warren had finally finished the sheep’s bathroom. It still smelled cleanly of new wood. Faith took her first bath in the beautiful tub. In front of the new three-way mirror she combed out her red hair, grown way below her shoulders over the summer. Maybe I’ll try a ponytail, she thought. Then she felt sad. Now that she truly belonged here, it was time to leave.

  Gem was in a slump. She had enjoyed the difficult riding within the confines of a ring. She had done well this summer. Now she had to leave Rambler and jumping over fences, her borrowed riding coat and blue velvet hunt cap. She had to leave Owen, her new conquest, before she had time to savour the romance.

  They had returned Rackity to the woods. He was almost full grown. Beth said to just leave his door open. At first, the raccoon wouldn’t leave his cage. Then, one morning, he was sitting on the porch roof. The next day they saw him slowly enter the woods. He didn’t come back.

  ‘Good,’ said Beth wistfully. ‘He’s found his real home. Maybe he’ll come visit.’

  Now, in the evenings, Faith and her sister sat on the back porch or walked the rail fence sorrowing together. While Gem moaned about leaving Rambler and Owen, Faith thought about losing Cloud. But she also tried to imagine the strangers at home, their mom and dad, their new brothers.

  The day before they were to leave, Beth brought up some of their fresh-laundered clothes, which Ben had neatly folded. She set them on top of the bed. The girls’ suitcases were half packed. Beth stood watching them a moment, her head cocked to one side. Her shirt was crumpled and dusty and her dark-honey hair straggled from her scarf. She had a funny, sad little smile on her face.

  ‘If you want to ride, go on ahead. There won’t be any more lessons the rest of this week. We’re busy with shearing the rams. The horses could use a little workout. Take the ones that suit you. You know which tack to use. Let me know before you go.’

  She turned to leave but stopped at the door and looked back at them.

  ‘I’m really going to miss you two,’ she said. ‘You’ve been good company – great helpers.’ She eyed Faith and raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ve learned some new things, too.’ The words didn’t leave Beth easily, she began to look uncomfortable. She turned quickly and thumped down the stairs with her heavy boots.

  ‘I’m going to miss this place, the classes – everything,’ said Gem. But she opted for a last date with Owen instead of a ride on Rambler.

  On her way down to the stables alone, Faith said to herself, ‘Not a real animal person.’

  She thought about Beth and Ben. Beth imposed her will on things, on horses, students. Ben never forced or pushed . . . ‘You wind up cutting yourself.’ They argued all the time. Ben organized chaos to make things run smoothly. Beth moved mountains. Faith admired them both. Somewhere in between, she thought, is the road for me.

  Beth had said she could have her pick of the horses for her final ride. It wasn’t a difficult decision. She would take Cloud out one last time before she bid the farm good-bye.

  The big black horse came to her in the field. Flattered, she pushed her face into his neck before she clipped on the lead line. ‘Cloud, my friend,’ she said.

  She picked a route along the hedgerow and up toward the woods. By the tree where Blackie White-face was buried, she stopped for a moment and said good-bye to the summer and to the place. But Cloud was eager and pawed impatiently at the earth. She pressed him into a trot.

  Trees were heavily green and familiar as parents. There weren’t many deerflies left to pester them as they trotted along the path.

  Somewhere in the woods was an overturned boat, rotting between two trees. Faith had watched Cora and Gem jump it before. She found it with little trouble.

  They paused, she and the horse, she gathered the reins, making certain Cloud saw the obstacle. He stirred beneath her. She held him, waiting, until she felt his eagerness, the excitement running up his legs and into hers.

  Then she urged him forward with her calves, sitting erect until the last stride before the boat. Her hands softened forward, her legs asked. Her eyes reached out into the corridor of trunks ahead.

  They soared over the boat and cantered away between the old and fragrant trees.

  I would like to thank by goddaughter, Jessica Rowe, who suffered through a tediously long draft of this novel when it was called The Animal Person. A hundred and a half dog-eared pages of a typed work can look pretty dull to a young girl. I thank, too, Jessie’s mother, my good friend Susan, who helped her tackle it. Appreciation to Lynette Vinton who, encouraged by her mother, Mary, also read the manuscript in its early stages. The reactions of these mothers and daughters to the story gave me fresh insight.

  This book would still be called Horse Story – Working Title but for my husband, Jay Williams, and my editor, Jenny Fanelli. On the same day 750 miles apart they each came up with A Summer of Horses. How could I protest such plottings of fate?

  I am also indebted to my horse, Hail Raiser, who taught me how to listen.

  Carol Fenner

  THREE TO RIDE

  Christine

  Pullein-Thompson

  GOOD-BYE

  MRS. SMITH PACKED FOR David.

  ‘You’d better take all your clothes; it’s not as though you’ve so many,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he replied.

  Now that the moment had come, he didn’t want to leave. He was filled with doubts. He couldn’t believe that Major Seely would find him satisfactory, that he could ride well enough to become a wor
king pupil in such a distinguished stable.

  He went to the familiar mirror above the old wash-handstand with its faded jug and bowl patterned with roses and smoothed his hair. He was on the small side for his sixteen years, and with his dark hair, which fell naturally and persistently over his forehead, and his brown eyes he looked kind, a little bewildered, someone unsure of himself, and perpetually in a dream.

  It was his last afternoon at home. Outside the cottage carefully tended flowers bloomed; he could smell them now as he moved to the window, and in every tree there seemed to be a bird singing. May had come with a west wind, and now she warmed the cottage’s thatched roof, and the dry soil outside. It was and always had been a wonderful month, thought David, letting his thoughts wander back, trying to remember himself as a little boy first learning to ride at the Riding School across the Common. Afterwards there had been Sinbad, the bad-tempered pony he had been lent by Colonel Lewisham, and the beginning of his friendship with Pat Lewisham. But that was over now; even the Elm Tree Riding School which they had run together was finished. Standing there, he didn’t want to remember that part of his life, but a hundred images came rushing to his mind – the first time he had ridden Folly, their success together at the Royal Windsor Show, the wonderful feeling of knowing that she was his own; Pat and himself riding together, hunting together, having tea together in the Hall. Planning the Riding School, their first pupils, buying Tornado at a sale, realising that Pat was tired of their riding school, the beginning of the end. . . .

  ‘I’ll have to darn these. You’re so hard on your socks, David. And the leathers need sewing on your jodhpurs,’ his mother said.

  They had sold their ponies – all of them except Tornado, Folly, and Pat’s Swallow. The selling had been the worst part of all. Colonel Lewisham had insisted that Sinbad and Mistletoe must go; and there seemed no point in keeping little skewbald Suzy. They hadn’t sold them very well, and Pat had cried into Mistletoe’s mane, which David couldn’t understand, because, if she hadn’t preferred to be a debutante, nothing need have changed. But then he never had understood Pat.