Horse Fever (7 page)

“All right, here we are: the ‘seasoned hunter,’ ” said Pat, turning onto a well-maintained driveway. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

“Only one hand!” Carole reminded her. “Two is bad luck.”

“Oops!” said Pat, uncrossing the fingers of one hand as they strode toward a small barn.

The barn had two stalls that opened onto a large paddock. It wasn’t posh, but it was neat and practical. Carole and Pat looked at one another hopefully.

“Hello! Over here!” A girl in jeans who had a brown ponytail waved from the barn, beckoning them closer. She was grooming a large chestnut pony that stood on a pair of cross-ties. “Hello! You’re here to see my pony, right?”

“Pony?” Pat asked uncertainly. “You mean the seasoned hunter?”

“Yeah—here he is. He’s hunted three seasons and won loads of children’s hunter trophies!” the girl said enthusiastically. “By the way, I’m Missy.”

Pat and Carole shook hands with Missy. “So you’re the one looking, right?” Missy said to Carole. Before Carole could answer, the girl had fetched a saddle and settled it on the back of the chestnut.

Carole looked at Pat. “What do we do?” she mouthed.

“Umm … I think there’s some mistake,” Pat said gently.

“A mistake?” the girl asked. “But you haven’t even
tried
him yet. At least give Buster a chance!”

“No—No, he looks lovely,” Pat assured her. “It’s just that
I’m
the one looking.”

“You?” Missy said, taking in Pat’s five feet, nine inches. “But you’re way too— Oh, no!” she cried as her face registered understanding. “Don’t tell me they did it again!”

“Did what?” Carole inquired.

“It’s the ad people at
Horseman’s Weekly
!” Missy wailed. “They did this two weeks ago, too. They left out the
pony
!”

“Huh?” Carole and Pat said in unison.

“ ‘Seasoned
pony
hunter!’ That’s what the ad is supposed to say. Gosh darn it!”

Carole and Pat murmured sympathetically as Missy explained. “You see, the first time they messed up the height. They put fifteen point one instead of fourteen point one. I couldn’t understand why no one was calling. Then I saw the ad. Nobody wants to buy a pony hunter that’s the size of a horse!”

“You’re right about that,” Carole said. Officially, a pony was any horse that stood at or under fourteen hands, two inches. The measuring at horse shows was very strict. Obviously, you couldn’t enter a fifteen-point-one-hand horse in pony classes: It would be considered illegal.

“So then what happened?” Pat asked.

“So then I took the height out entirely. But then
they
took out the
pony
—left it out, I mean. So I had four adults come look at him! Last week I finally got some kids. But now this!”

Pat nodded. “I’m sure we would have noticed if it had said ‘pony hunter.’ ”

Missy looked glum. “I was hoping to sell him before school starts. Or not hoping. I don’t want to sell him at all. But I’m getting a new horse in two weeks and he’s got to be gone. We lease out the second stall to a boarder,” she explained.

Carole and Pat chatted easily with Missy for a few minutes. Like most horsey people, they didn’t need much to get them going. The topic of horses was endless. When
they left, Missy was putting a bridle on Buster. “He’s almost tacked up, so of course I’ll ride now!” she said.

Carole smiled. That was exactly what she would have done.

A
S
P
AT HAD
feared, the quiet beginner horse could barely get out of a walk. Their one-thirty appointment, on the other hand, had a bucking problem—as well as a rearing problem and a bolting problem. “Exaggerating is one thing!” Pat cried in exasperation. “But calling that horse ‘trained’ is—is—” She took a perturbed bite of her hamburger. “Words fail me, Carole, but it’s wrong. It’s just plain wrong!”

Carole nodded, her mouth full of fries. She and Pat were wolfing fast food on their way to the last appointment of the day. “If it’s any consolation, it happens in reverse, too,” she said. Briefly she recounted The Saddle Club’s efforts to help find a suitable owner for Garnet, Veronica diAngelo’s former horse. “She was a pretty little Arabian. And we had a three-hundred-pound woman show up who wanted to use her as a parade mount!”

Pat laughed appreciatively. “That’s true—I’ve never been on that side of the fence. I’ve never had to sell a horse. When my horse got old we just put him out to pasture. How about you?” she asked Carole. “Have you ever gone through that?”

“No,” Carole replied quietly. “Starlight is the only horse I’ve ever owned.”

“And why you’d ever need another is beyond me,” Pat remarked.

“I guess someday I’ll have to move on,” Carole said hesitantly. The thought was new to her. She’d never really considered her riding life after Starlight.

“He looks like he’d be so much fun to ride,” said Pat.

Carole noticed the wistful tone in Pat’s voice. “Why don’t you try him sometime?” she offered generously.

“Are you sure?” Pat said. “I’d love to!”

“Tomorrow then. I insist,” Carole added.

“I’ll be there,” Pat said. “It will be great after riding these horses. I just pray this last horse is good. He sure
sounds
promising.”

“Which one is that?” Carole asked.

“King’s Ransom,” said Pat, “the warmblood dressage horse.”

“Oh, right,” Carole said, pretending to remember. In fact, she’d known all the time, all day, what their last appointment was. She could have recited the ad by heart, from “16.2 hand” to “ready to go all the way with the right rider.” Getting out of the car, Carole fervently hoped the gelding wouldn’t live up to his description. Then she could forget about him. Right now, for some reason, she couldn’t.

“M
Y GOSH
,
HE’S
even more unbelievable in real life!” Pat whispered. Both Carole and Pat had gasped aloud when they saw King. The owner, a young woman named Jenny, stood at the top of a wooded pasture and whistled. At this cue a large, dark brown horse lifted his head and came toward them, trotting, then cantering, his tail streaming out behind him.

“I always like people to see him in his natural habitat,” Jenny remarked, slipping a leather halter over his elegant head. “That’s how I first saw him—grazing in the fields in Holland.”

“He’s beautiful,” Pat remarked.

Carole couldn’t say a thing. King looked like her
dream horse—or a horse out of a fairy tale. But he was
real
.

After tacking him up, Jenny mounted to put him through his paces. Carole knew this was good etiquette: An owner should always ride the horse she was selling first. That way, if the horse was feeling frisky it would be obvious, and the potential buyer could be prepared for it. Of course it was also a great opportunity to show what the horse could do. And King could do plenty.

Jenny spent twenty minutes showing him off. The pair did extended trots and tiny canter circles. They leg-yielded. They did turns on the forehand. They went from a walk to a canter without trotting. They halted from a trot. The whole time, King’s ears moved forward and back, listening. He looked like the dressage horses in photographs, perfectly collected, perfectly balanced.

“Anything else you want to see?” Jenny called.

“No, I’m ready to try him myself!” Pat said eagerly.

After giving Pat a leg up and helping her get settled, Jenny came over to the rail of the ring. Carole had been hoping she would. She relished any chance to talk with an advanced rider, and Jenny clearly fell into that category.

“King is gorgeous!” she blurted out. “Did you train him yourself?”

Jenny smiled at the compliment. “Not totally. He got a
good start overseas. But I took him up to the advanced levels.”

Carole could hear the pride in Jenny’s voice. “Where do you show him?” she asked.

Jenny named several of the largest dressage shows on the East Coast. “I really want him to find an owner who’ll appreciate his talent,” she said. She looked curiously at Carole. “Do you ride?”

“Yes, I have my own horse,” Carole said.

“Do you do dressage?” Jenny inquired.

“I do, but not like you,” Carole said. “You’re a professional, aren’t you?”

Jenny nodded. “Yeah. After I got out of college there wasn’t anything else I wanted to do. So now I ride, show, teach, train horses—everything, really. I’m selling King because I can make a big profit on him. Besides, it’s time to move on. I’ve taken him as far as I can.” Apologetically, she added, “I know it sounds awfully cold, but when riding becomes a business, you have to be practical.”

“Of course you do!” Carole agreed. She tried to assume a stern expression.
She
was going to be a professional, too, someday; she didn’t want Jenny to think of her as some little Pony Clubber.

“Oops! He’s acting up,” Jenny commented.

Carole looked out to the ring. King had gotten his head down and was trying to buck. All Pat had to do was sit
down firmly in the saddle and get the horse’s head up. Instead she was letting the reins slide through her hands: a recipe for trouble.

“Get his head up!” Carole and Jenny cried at the same time.

They looked at each other and laughed. “Guess we think alike,” Jenny called, hurrying out to assist Pat.

When King was settled, Pat asked if Jenny would mind setting up a few jumps. “I don’t have any real jumps,” Jenny said, sounding somewhat offended. “I’m a dressage rider, remember? But I tell you what, I’ll line up these cavalletti.”

Carole helped Jenny with the wooden Xs for the cavalletti. Then she asked to run in and use the bathroom. “Sure. It’s just past the kitchen,” said Jenny, pointing toward the house. “Make sure you check out the pictures of King!”

Carole was happy to oblige. She lingered in the hallway, taking in photo after photo of King under saddle, winning ribbons, and running free in the pasture.

When she returned, Pat had dismounted. “Not that I don’t
like
dressage, don’t get me wrong,” she was saying to Jenny. She gave the horse a big pat. “Also, he’s a little strong for me. Beautiful mover, though.… Hey, you ought to try him on the flat, Carole—just to see what he’s like.”

Carole caught her breath. “Could I?” she asked Jenny.

“Go ahead,” said Jenny. “He needs the exercise.”

Carole borrowed a hard hat from Pat and got on. As she rode off she heard Pat say, “Wait till you see what this girl can do.”

King was even more amazing to ride than to watch. He was full of energy, but it was nothing Carole couldn’t handle. Riding him was like soaring on air. At the slightest nudge from her heels or tightening of her hands on the reins, King would switch gaits. And every gait was better than the last. His trot
was
big and floating. His canter was rhythmic and powerful. As he trotted circles and figure eights and practiced flying lead changes, Carole lost all track of time. When she finally pulled him up, she was grinning so hard her face felt as if it would crack. She dismounted in a haze.

“You did beautifully with him!” Pat cried, rushing over. “Much better than I ever could.”

“It was all King,” Carole murmured.

“No—not everyone can handle him,” said Jenny, adding, “You ride well.”

King nuzzled Carole inquisitively as she handed over the reins. “Good boy,” Carole said, patting him. “I hope you find a great owner. Thank you,” she said quietly to Jenny. “That’s a ride I’ll never forget.”

“Nor I,” said Pat. “Even though I can’t make you an offer.”

“That’s okay,” said Jenny. “After all, I want him to go to somebody who will take him up to his full potential.”

Pat began to say something but stopped. Carole wished they were alone. Then she could have explained that Jenny’s comment was nothing personal. Any rider would stand up for her horse like that.

Together the three of them walked toward the stable. They helped Jenny untack King. Then, while Pat made a quick call home on her cellular phone, Carole hung over King’s stall door. Jenny joined her.

“His conformation is nearly perfect,” Carole marveled.

Jenny nodded absently. Then she gave Carole a curious look. “You really like him, don’t you?” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Carole breathed.

“
You’re
not looking, are you?” Jenny asked suddenly.

Carole was taken aback. “Looking for a horse?” she said. “Me? Oh gosh, no! No, not at all. But thanks!”

“It’s too bad,” Jenny said with a shrug. “You’d make a great pair. You’re just the kind of talented young rider I want for King. So
his
talent doesn’t go to waste.”

Dimly Carole was aware of Pat wrapping up her conversation. The same strange impulse as before seemed to take hold of her. “I mean, I don’t
think
I’m looking,” she
heard herself say. “That is, unless I found something …” She let her voice trail off vaguely.

Jenny scribbled on a piece of paper and pressed it into Carole’s hand. “Here’s my number,” she said. “Come back any time.”

TV
WAS CATCHING
. Or watching it was. Or something like that. It was funny, Stevie thought, how
Priced to Sell
faded into reruns of
Starship Attack
and
Starship Attack
faded into music videos and music videos faded into
Doctors’ Hospital
. “I don’t even
like Doctors’ Hospital
,” Stevie muttered, fiddling with the remote control. “I don’t even like soap operas.” Pessimistically she flipped through all the channels. Then she came back to
Doctors’ Hospital
. “Alex! Will you bring me some chips and dip?” she yelled.