Jumper (3 page)

I began to relax. Boots was doing better than I expected. I signaled her to canter and she speeded up immediately. But when I gave her the direction to slow to a trot, she didn't stop but barreled on ahead.

“Whoa!” I hissed at her, signaling harder. Boots reluctantly dropped to a trot, tossing her head in defiance.

“Boots needs to be a bit rounder on that trot, Reese.” Laurel watched me carefully.

I wrestled with the horse, but she refused to pay attention to my signals and trotted however she wanted.

“She's not listening to you,” Laurel yelled. “And she's being a bit rude about it.”

“I know!” I answered in exasperation.

“I want you to stop. Make her halt, wait, back up four steps, then trot,” Laurel called.

I tried, but Boots was difficult, shaking her head and backing up only slightly before trying to move forward again.

“Tap her with your crop,” Laurel said.

I moved to grab the whip, but Boots knew exactly what I was going to do. With a quick backward kick, she tossed me out of the saddle and into the soft dirt. Landing on my already-sore backside, I unclipped my helmet and threw it down in frustration. I knew I could kiss my chances of placing at the Greenbriar Invitational goodbye. As I stared at Boots, the image of that wild mare with her chestnut coat gleaming red in the sun rose up in front of my eyes. And suddenly I wanted her more than anything else I had ever wanted in my entire life.

“Honey, I'm really sorry.” Mom stopped peeling potatoes and leaned against the counter. “I know moving up to the next division is really important to you, but Dad and I just can't handle the cost of leasing a horse. There's a lot more to it than just the price tag on the animal—and you know that a good jumper isn't cheap.”

“I know,” I said.

“There are vet bills and feed and boarding the horse.” Dad put the stack of plates he
was carrying down on the kitchen table. “It's very expensive.”

“I know,” I repeated miserably. After my disastrous lesson on Boots, I was hoping that I might be able to lease a horse—the stable usually had several horses available, and it would be a way for me to move up a level next season
and
get away from Boots.

“I just don't see how we could do it,” Mom continued.

“If I were able to get a horse cheap and board it at Grandpa's after the competition season, would we be able to afford that?” I asked.

Mom frowned in thought. “Well, maybe. That would help with some of the expenses, but where are you going to get a trained show jumper for a low cost? That just doesn't happen, Reese.”

“Maybe not.” I sighed. Laurel had stopped me after the lesson and told me that even though I was having trouble with Boots, she still wanted me to compete on her at the Invitational. I didn't think that was such a hot idea—after all, she had already tossed me
off once, but Laurel insisted that we'd be fine after a few more lessons.

Dad rubbed a hand through his thinning gray hair, making it stand out like a wire brush. “Besides, it's not really a big deal. You're such a good rider, I'm sure you'll do great on this new horse once you get used to her.”

I closed my eyes. Dad knew basically nothing about show jumping. He was much more involved with my two younger brothers' hockey teams than my riding. I had no doubt that part of the reason we couldn't afford to lease a horse was because every year we had a whopping bill for hockey fees, skates, equipment, sticks and tournaments. I didn't resent that—my little brothers were great skaters and they had as much right as I did to want to do something they loved. It's just that Dad seemed to think horses were a hobby, not something really important. So he didn't blink when it came to paying for extra ice time for Drew and Liam, but new tack or boots or something always took some persuasion.

“You don't understand,” I complained.

“This isn't a horse. It's an old nag! I may as well try jumping with a donkey.”

“Well, a donkey would definitely be less expensive,” Dad tried to joke. Then he saw my face, set in a stubborn frown. “You may as well stop whining, Reese. There's nothing we can do about it.”

“I know that!” I bit back an angry retort. It would help if my parents shared my passion for riding, but since they didn't, I would have to figure this problem out on my own.

“I don't know if we can find them, Reese.” Grandpa bumped the truck along the back-country road. “If the mustangs are deep in the military land, we'll never spot them from the road.”

“Can't we drive onto the military base?”

“No,” Grandpa said. “It's restricted access.”

“Don't you know someone who could let us in?” I persisted.

Grandpa chuckled. “I'm not a magician, you know.” He glanced over at me. “This is really important to you, isn't it?”

“Yes.” I couldn't explain it. There was just something about that red chestnut mare that I couldn't forget. Part of me knew logically that buying one of the wild mustangs was probably the only way I could ever afford to own my own horse, but the other part of me wanted that horse just because. Because she was fast. Because she was beautiful. Because in that split second that our eyes had met, I felt a connection with her that I'd never felt with any other horse, not even Dublin.

“Look! There they are,” I cried, pointing to a group of horses grazing in a small gully. Grandpa glanced in the direction I was pointing. I gripped the edge of my seat as we hit a rut in the road. The truck gave a tremendous clank, and Grandpa jerked the steering wheel to one side. The truck bucked like a farting bull, then wobbled to the side of the road.

“Uh-oh. Looks like we've got a flat,” Grandpa said. He guided the limping truck to a stop, then opened the door. “This could
take a few minutes, Reese. I haven't changed a tire on this old truck in years.”

“That's okay.” I looked around. “Is it all right if I have a look for the horses?”

“Sure. Just stay away from the fences.” Grandpa pulled a toolbox from the back of the truck.

I climbed up the embankment, taking care to stay away from the barbed wire that enclosed the military base. The land stretched away from me, a smooth, rolling surface. I glanced over my shoulder, but Grandpa was still wrestling with the lug nuts on the tire.

“Need some help?” I called back. Grandpa waved me off. “No, it's all right. They're just a little tight. I'll get it.”

I nodded and started walking along the fence line. The truck grew smaller in the distance as I walked farther. I felt entirely alone, even knowing Grandpa was there, with that vast prairie stillness surrounding me.

The horses were much closer now. I could see them, but the barbed wire fence prevented me from getting near enough to really get a good look. I studied the fence.
Grandpa had told me to stay away from it. He hadn't specifically said I couldn't go through it. I glanced back. Grandpa was still working on the truck—his back was to me. There were some bushes and tall grasses that helped hide me a little.

I took a deep breath, lifted the bottom wire and wriggled underneath it. Facedown, I could smell the dusty, sunbaked grass and the earthy scent of the damp soil. My shirt was getting smudged with it. I dug my knees into the dirt and dragged myself under the fence.

The horses were watching me, their eyes alert, ears pricked. I saw the red chestnut mare standing near a wild rose bush, munching some still-green grass that had been sheltered by the bush. She eyed me thoughtfully. I took careful, slow steps toward her.

“Hey, pretty girl,” I said softly. “You're sure beautiful, aren't you?”

The mare gave a snort and ambled out of the rose bush, moving leisurely away from me as I came closer. I stood still and held out my hand. The rest of the horses were edgy. They
gradually backed into a nervous clump and watched the mare uneasily.

The mare lifted her nose. Her nostrils widened as she caught my unfamiliar scent. Slowly, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the carrots I'd brought. I didn't know if I could tempt her—wild horses would never come near a person, carrots or no carrots. But Grandpa had told me that some of these horses used to be tame. The mare didn't really seem afraid of me, which made me wonder if she used to belong to someone.

She stretched her neck out, but it was hard for her to investigate the carrots in my hand from twenty feet away. She took a cautious step forward. I held my breath.

An angry squeal erupted from the far side of the band. A mighty head shot up, ears pricked, eyes fiery wild. My heart gave a great frightened thud. The stallion had apparently decided he didn't like what we were up to and was not shy about letting me know.

I backed away. He circled the band, drawing them into a tighter ring, contemplating me
all the while. I backed away faster. I was only ten feet away from the fence when the stallion charged. I bolted for the fence and dove under, the barbs catching on my shirt, scraping my back. I wiggled frantically, but the barbs caught on the belt of my jeans and held fast. The stallion's hooves pounded against the ground. I tried to roll sideways to loosen the barbs, struggling to get most of my body underneath the fence. I knew that the stallion could still reach me, though. He could kick or trample me—those hooves would pummel me to a pulp.

I looked up in terror as the enormous creature pounded toward me and I fought to get under the wire, thrashing my legs, yanking the wire upward.

The red chestnut mare bolted suddenly, right into the stallion's path. He reared to avoid hitting her, clouds of dust billowing up as he twisted and plunged sideways. She streaked away from him across the prairie. Distracted from his goal of cutting me to pieces, the stallion shot after his runaway mare at a furious gallop. She squealed as he
sank his teeth into her flank and turned her back toward the band.

I pushed upward on the wire with all my strength. There was a ripping noise as the cloth finally gave way and I rolled to safety on the other side of the fence.

Sort of.

Grandpa was striding toward me, outraged disbelief on his face. “Reese!” he shouted. I cringed as he grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet. “What were you thinking!” he bellowed. “You could have been killed!” Without waiting for an answer, he wrapped me in a hug so tight I could barely breathe. I could feel Grandpa's heart hammering against his ribs, and instantly I knew that he had been really scared.

“I'm sorry, Grandpa,” I said, my voice muffled in his shirt.

Grandpa released me and swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, but I realized as I did that at least half a dozen places on my body stung badly, my shirt was torn to ribbons and stained with dirt and my own blood, and my hands were
red with welts from the wire. “It hurts a bit,” I admitted.

“I have some iodine that I keep in the truck. I'll paint you up, and that'll hold you till we get home.” Grandpa headed back in the direction of the truck.

As I hobbled after him, I glanced back at the herd of mustangs. The chestnut mare had managed to evade any more punishment from the stallion, and once she was back in the band, he seemed satisfied. The stallion was moving the herd up the gully and over the ridge, deeper into the military's land.

Grandpa rummaged in the glove compartment and found an ancient bottle of iodine. I set my teeth as he dabbed it on the worst of the scratches.

“This is gonna hurt,” Grandpa warned. I nearly howled as he painted the deep cut on my lower back where the barbed wire had caught in my now-tattered jeans.

“Why do you suppose she did that?” I gasped through the stinging pain.

“Who did what?” Grandpa said, capping the bottle. “All done.”

“The mare. Running past the stallion like that. She probably saved my life.”

“I know,” Grandpa said soberly. “For one terrible minute I thought you wouldn't make it. I was trying to get there first, but I'm no match for a charging stallion.” Grandpa paused.

I didn't want to think about it anymore. “Let's go home,” I said.

“Next rider in the ring, number 81, Taylor Jennings on Fraggle Rock.” The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

I peeked into the arena. It was similar to ours, but Greenbriar's jumps had all been decorated with pots of silk flowers for the competition. It looked colorful and festive—a lot different from the usual training ring.

I adjusted my paper number carefully so it wouldn't rip. It was tied with narrow, dark colored
string over my riding jacket. I was used to the uniform riders used for shows now, but I still remembered how I felt when I went to my first jumping competition. Everyone looked so different. We always wore beige breeches and high, polished boots, but the tailored dark jackets, white blouses and velvet helmets made the riders seem so formal and impressive—I could hardly believe it was us.

Just outside the ring, Kayla was finishing the complicated job of plaiting Twilight's mane. His coat shone. Even his hooves were polished. Kayla herself looked sophisticated with her glossy, blond hair pulled back in a low knot at her neck. Her jacket fitted perfectly, and a chunky gold pin held her collar closed.

I tugged self-consciously at the sleeves of my own jacket, which were getting too short. My hair was French-braided into two pigtails behind my ears, but curly wisps were escaping everywhere. I looked like a mad scientist, but I didn't have time to redo the braids. I just stuffed my helmet on and went to the stall where they'd put Boots. She was still
blanketed, but I'd brought my saddle with me, along with the big plastic container with all my riding stuff. It was right where I left it, outside the stall, but when I began to tack up, I noticed my martingale was missing. I shuffled the saddle blanket to one side, picked up my gloves, brushes, the bridle—but no martingale.