Mystery at Saddle Creek. Shelley Peterson

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      “It was on my door. I found it when I let Boss in for the night.”

      “Did you call the police?”

      “No.”

      Bird read the words aloud.

       “Cliff Jones, you are duly warned. You are going to feel what it’s like to get a tire iron across the head. Be afraid.”

      Bird handed the note back. “Cliff, you’re not the only one who got a letter like this.”

      “Who else?”

      “Pierre Hall. He came over last night looking for protection. He wouldn’t call the police so Hannah did. You have to, too.”

      “I thought about it, but they won’t believe me. They already think I’m the bad guy. They’ll figure I wrote it myself.”

      “Cliff, listen to me. You’re innocent! How can the police prove that if they don’t know what’s happening?”

      Cliff took a moment to consider Bird’s advice. “They can’t. You’re right. I’ll call them.”

      Bird smiled grimly. “It’s the right thing. Meanwhile, I bet Philip Butler got one, too. And the wild man would’ve got one if they knew where he lived.”

      “Who’s ‘they,’ do you think?”

      Bird tilted her head. “Very good question.”

      That question was still on Bird’s mind as she and Sunny worked in the ring. Who had sent the notes? They walked, trotted and cantered in circles, keeping a steady rhythm. It was boring work, but essential. To be ready for the show ring, a horse had to be fit and limber, and respond willingly to leg aids. Abby Malone had told Bird to think of the jumps as obstacles to a steady course on the ground. It was a helpful piece of wisdom, one that helped calm her nerves when she saw the size of the jumps.

      Where are you, Bird? Your mind is all fuzzy. Sunny’s thoughts broke into Bird’s own. What’s up?

       I’m wondering who threatened Cliff and Pierre.

       Oh. Can we jump now? Or go for a ride? I can’t take much more of these circle exercises. My muscles are aching and I’m dizzy.

      Bird shook her head and laughed out loud. Why don’t you complain a little more? It may be hard now, but you’ll thank me Friday at the show.

       You’re heartless.

       You’re complicated.

       Complicated?

       What other horse argues with its rider like this?

       What other rider argues back?

       Enough, Sunny! Concentrate.

      As Sunny and Bird were finishing up their flatwork, a beige Toyota turned into their lane — Liz’s mother. It was early; it seemed as if nobody had slept well. Regardless, it was as good a time as any to find out if Phil had gotten a note like Cliff ’s and Pierre’s.

      Bird waited patiently for Patty Brown to let Liz off at the barn. She made her move as the car drove back down the drive.

      “Hello, Mrs. Brown,” Bird called out from Sunny’s back as the car slowed.

      “Morning, Bird.” Patty looked tired.

      “Are you all right?” asked Bird.

      “Not really.” Bird saw a tear forming in her eye.

      “I’m sorry.” Bird knew this was her opening, and she jumped in. “But it seems that you’re not alone. Cliff isn’t all right either. A horrible message was nailed to his door last night.”

      Patty’s eyebrows shot up. “No!”

      “It was a threat. And Pierre next door got one, too.”

      “What did they say?”

      “They were the same. Something awful about a tire iron.”

      “And that he should be afraid?”

      Now Bird knew for sure that Phil had received the same note.

      “Philip got home late and found one stuck under the knocker,” Patty continued. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but now that I know ...”

      Bird nodded. “You’re absolutely right. The only thing to do is to call the police, or else whoever’s threatening people will get away with it.”

      Patty nodded slowly. “Of course. I’ll call them now.”

      Bird waved goodbye to Patty and continued up to the wash-stall with Sunny, deep in thought. Who had written the notes, she wondered again, and why? It was upsetting.

      By the time Paul left for work and Hannah and Julia arrived at the barn, Cliff and Bird had finished cleaning the stalls and had organized the hayloft. They were expecting twenty-four wagons of hay—two were already on their way, and would arrive any time.

      “I brought extra gloves and old cotton shirts,” Hannah said. “Cliff, is there water in the tack room fridge?”

      “Lots.”

      Cliff went out to the drive shed to get the conveyor belt. He pulled it with the tractor and parked it on the big orange tarpaulin, which was spread on the arena floor to catch the loose hay.

      Liz rolled her eyes. “My luck that you’re bringing in the hay on a day that Mom drops me off and l ... leaves me.”

      Julia laughed wickedly. “You have no idea how tough it gets. You get sweaty and prickly and so hot you get woozy. Strong men weep.”

      “And that’s supposed to b ... be encouraging?”

      “You don’t have to help, girly-girl.” Julia laid down the challenge with humour in her voice.

      “Actually, it’s girl-power time,” said Bird. “Let me see your muscles.”

      Liz flexed her skinny biceps.

      “First class. You’ll have no problem. There’s a reason why no men are around when the hay shows up.”

      Cliff popped his head around the corner. “Oh, really?”

      Bird grinned. “Besides you!”

      The hay wagons started to arrive, loaded with more than two hundred bales each. The hay farmers would drop off a full wagon and return home with an emptied one, which would go directly back to the field and get filled up again. To keep things going, the Saddle Creek team needed to have each wagon unloaded by the time the next one arrived.

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