The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

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      Sandy Casey sat on her left. He remembered the first time he’d seen Hilary riding Dancer. It had been at the Queen’s Exhibition in the Coliseum, five years earlier. They’d been a spectacular team. He took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze.

      Christine sat on Hilary’s right. Sympathetic and supportive, she sat with her arm firmly around her daughter’s shoulders. Sitting beside Christine was Rory. He marvelled at Dancer’s incredible strength and beauty, and noted the difference Abby’s training had made in the scruffy, ill-mannered beast that had been jumping the farm’s fences only months before. Liam and Fiona held hands, breathless, eyes on their daughter. Liam nodded and urged her on. Fiona sat quietly with tears of admiration glistening on her cheeks.

      Pete Pierson’s arms surrounded Laura as she buried her head in his chest, her eyes securely shut. Her lips moved as she said a prayer that Abby would not get hurt. Pete watched Abby carefully. She was allowing Dancer to clear the big jumps by leaving him alone, and he admired her restraint. It was rare for a young, inexperienced rider to have the wisdom that Abby was demonstrating.

      Joy Featherstone and Robert Wick had slid into the stands behind Christine and Rory just in time for the start of the show. They sat slack-jawed, in awe of this incredible combination of talent and determination. Sam and Leslie Morris had brought Lucy with them. The teenagers huddled together silently, eyes riveted. This was intense.

      Each face in the stands was intent on Abby and Dancer’s progress through the course. Not only were they clearing each fence, but their time was looking good.

      Another face in the stands wore an altogether different expression. Samuel Owens, bandages off but still using a cane, glowered through the coyote scratches. He would put a stop to this and he knew how to do it. Pushing himself up onto his feet, and clutching his cane, Owens made his way down to the judges’ booth on the other side of the stadium.

      Abby concentrated on the job ahead. The optical illusion was next. This jump fanned out, making the ground line completely off-angle from the top rail. The width was deceptive. If you went strictly for the top rail, you might step on the bottom rail and tumble it down. If you rode to the centre rail, you came in crooked and risked ticking the angled top rail with a back hoof.

      Abby decided to ride straight to the top rail. Dancer noticed the illusion and slowed. Abby let him figure it out. They cantered on the spot for a stride, then Dancer surged ahead. He took off well ahead of the jump, and sprang a foot over it. Abby was thrown slightly back with the unexpected enormity of the action, but grabbed his mane and regained her balance as quickly as she’d lost it, taking care to leave his mouth unjerked.

      They landed too long. They could take either four extra-small strides or three extra-long ones before they got to the wall.

      Head up, ears forward, hind end in gear, Dancer hopped straight-legged. Four, three, two, one. Up they sprang, over the wall with its precariously balanced top bricks. Clear! Land, one, two, three, four, five, turning tightly all the way, into the tall yellow and white vertical. Over they went, Dancer tucking his hind legs sideways to avoid the top rail. He then gently landed, switched his leads, and turned right. Now they were facing the last obstacle.

      Abby noticed that Dancer was getting tired. His sides were heaving, and his strides were less springy. He was going too fast, reasoning wrongly that speed would help him clear the wide, colourful steps that loomed ahead. For the first time in their short riding history, Abby sat back and forced him to change his speed. He resisted, throwing his head up and down.

      She spoke to him. “Steady, Dancer, we’re almost home.”

      The stallion relaxed, and Abby released her pull. He steadied in time to take the last two strides before his mighty leap. Upon safely landing, the stallion bucked high in the air, and swished his tail mightily. Head down, nose straight out, Dancer raced through the time gate, four seconds under time, and clean.

      They’d won. Abby punched the air with her fist and leaned over Dancer’s neck, hugging him with all her remaining strength. “Dancer, you did it! Dancer! You won!” Tears flowed down her cheeks.

      Up he reared, bellowing his victory. He walked around on his hind legs pawing the air. Sweat dripped from his flanks and neck. As the crowd stood roaring with approval and clapping wildly, Dancer lightly dropped his front feet to the ground, and bowed deeply to his audience. His nose touched the ground. He stayed in that position for five full seconds before he stood up. He tossed his head and walked proudly out of the ring, huffing to get his breath.

      There was only one dry eye in the house, and it belonged to the man with the scratched face in the judges’ booth.

      As soon as they were out of the ring, Abby took her feet out of the stirrups and dismounted. Dancer’s sleek chestnut coat was drenched. His eyes showed white, and his nostrils were flared and so red that they appeared in danger of bleeding. Abby feared the exertion had been too much, so soon after his injury.

      His sides were heaving. She loosened the girth, ran up the stirrups, unbuckled the chin strap and nose band on his bridle, and began to walk him toward his stall. He held his head low to allow more oxygen to enter his lungs, and plodded rather than walked. He’d used every ounce of his energy.

      Every rider she passed gave her the thumbs-up, or a pat on the back. “Congratulations!” called Chris Pratt from across the paddock. “Well done!” yelled Hugh Graham. Ricky Thompson winked and said, “Not bad for a girl!”

      Abby laughed and graciously accepted the good wishes, but she was more concerned about Dancer as they neared the stabling facilities.

      Hilary James stood waiting at the stall. Her radiant smile faded as she noticed Dancer’s condition. She threw open the tack box, producing towels and the warmest blanket. Hilary ran to Dancer and pulled off the saddle as they walked. She replaced his bridle with his halter.

      Without saying a word, the two young women rubbed Dancer down, blanketed him, and kept him walking. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Hilary allowed him a small drink of water, then took away the bucket to prevent him from colicking.

      Finally, after they’d walked him for fifteen minutes, Hilary said, “He’ll be fine now, Abby.” They put him in his stall and watched.

      “Maybe it was too soon,” said Abby. “I hope I didn’t hurt him.”

      Hilary was stern. “We were all in it together, Abby. You, me, even the vet said he was fine to go. He hasn’t been in the ring for five years. Maybe there was more stress than we counted on.”

      Abby shook her head. “There was certainly more than I’d counted on. I froze out there. Dancer shook me out of it.”

      Hilary smiled. “I saw. But you came back, Abby. You rode that course better than I ever did.”

      “You’re crazy, Hilary. Dancer did it all. Every bit of it, until the last fence.”

      “You knew when to leave him alone. I’m impressed.”

      Liam Malone came running up to the girls, out of breath. “They’ve disqualified you!” he said to Abby. “They’re giving the trophy and prize money to the second-place rider. They need a jump-off to determine who that is because the next three horses have equal faults.”

      Abby couldn’t believe her ears. “Disqualified?” she asked. “For what?”

      Liam’s mouth became a hard thin line. СКАЧАТЬ