Horse Fever (2 page)

Stevie hesitated, watching her father disappear into the kitchen. She was trapped, caught between her desire to murder her twin, Alex, on the spot, and her desire to eat all the honey-dipped doughnuts and leave only the jelly ones for her brothers. Chad and Michael were as obnoxious as ever, but
Alex
 … Lately Alex was even more insufferable. Ever since he had taken up track and basketball at Fenton, he was constantly going on about what great shape he was in. “You call that a sport!” he would say about horseback riding, Stevie’s athletic activity.
It isn’t fair
, Stevie thought grumpily.
Riding gets no respect, fitness-wise. Everyone thinks you just sit there
 …

“Riding!” Stevie clapped a hand to her mouth, remembering. That was why her alarm had been set in the first place. She had a lesson that morning—a dressage lesson and the first lesson since Christmas. Warning of future vengeance on her siblings, she ran back up the stairs. Halfway up, though, she felt her energy sag. In her bedroom she sat down on the bed, fighting off the temptation
to curl up under the covers. For some reason, she felt more like eating doughnuts, going back to sleep, making cookies with her mom—any and all of the above—than having a riding lesson. She dragged herself up and went over to the massive laundry pile. It was no surprise that each pair of jeans was filthier than the last, and that her sole pair of breeches was even worse. Riding all the time generated a
lot
of dirty clothes, and Mrs. Lake was adamant about her children doing their own laundry. With a sigh Stevie picked up the least offensive pair and went to the bathroom to sponge off the stains.
Maybe
, she thought grimly,
this is what they mean by waking up on the wrong side of the bed
. It sure felt like it, anyway. She was tired before the day had even started!

L
ISA
A
TWOOD HAD
her nose in a book. She could hear her mother honking in the driveway, but she ignored it. If she could just get to the end of chapter three … The horn sounded again, more insistent this time. With a loud, long-suffering sigh, Lisa slapped shut
To Kill a Mockingbird
. She grabbed her gloves off the side table and ran for the car. “Coming, Mom!”

Riding over to Pine Hollow, Lisa gave in to her bad mood. Here it was, Christmas vacation, and she had more homework than ever. Lately the teachers seemed to view vacation as an excuse to heap on more work. It made it so
that even homework she normally would have enjoyed, like reading
To Kill a Mockingbird
, became a chore.

And naturally, just when Lisa was feeling swamped at school, her mother started piling on the tasks at home. “… and you need to get a haircut,” Mrs. Atwood was saying. “You also need to exchange the dress Aunt Meg and Uncle Bob gave you. And have you written your thank-you notes yet?”

“No,” Lisa muttered grumpily. Only
her
mother would ask a question like that so soon after the holiday!

“But you’ll start them today?” Mrs. Atwood prompted.

“Yes, Mom,” Lisa said wearily.

“Good,” said her mother, looking pleased. “Don’t forget Mrs. Chambers. She gave you the needlepoint kit.”

Lisa let out a loud sigh. The winter before, she had learned embroidery to please her mother. This year her mother’s friend Mrs. Chambers had given her a needlepoint kit. Would the arts and crafts never end?

“What’s wrong, dear? I thought you liked needlepoint. And this pattern is so cute, right up your alley with the horse heads and the blue ribbons. Celeste was so nice to pick it out specially for you.”

Lisa did have to admit she liked the pattern. And she was pretty good at needlepoint. But right now it just felt like another chore.

“You could finish it and give it to one of your friends for her birthday,” Mrs. Atwood persisted.

“That’s a good idea,” Lisa said to satisfy her mother. It would certainly be an unusual gift. Stevie or Carole would never be caught dead doing needlepoint!

“Now what about the haircut? When should I make your appointment? I hope Charles can fit you in before school starts. Of course,” Mrs. Atwood added pointedly, “it would be easier if you didn’t spend every waking moment at Pine Hollow …”

Lisa was too tired to argue with her mother’s favorite complaint. The truth was, Lisa knew how much easier her life would have been if she hadn’t been totally horse-crazy. She would have had more time for homework, more time for school activities, more time to relax, even. And relaxing, as Lisa had learned the hard way, was an important “activity” for an overachiever like herself.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mrs. Atwood remarked. “
I
have an appointment today. It’s my weekly wash and style. Why don’t you take it, dear? I can skip a week; my hair ought to hold out all right. I could pick you up right after your lesson, on my way back from the supermarket. How does that sound?” Lisa’s mother looked expectantly at her.

Lisa opened her mouth to protest, but then she stopped. Normally she and her two best friends, Stevie
Lake and Carole Hanson, hung out at Pine Hollow after their lessons. They would clean tack, fuss over their horses, and help out with whatever work needed to be done around the barn. Today, the first Saturday after Christmas, there would be lots of work. Their instructor and the owner of the stables, Max Regnery, probably had a list of chores a mile long. Or if he didn’t, his mother, Mrs. Reg, would. Mrs. Reg could always find things for the girls to do. For some reason the thought annoyed Lisa that morning.
Maybe
, she thought defensively,
I just don’t feel like cleaning tack today
. For a moment she allowed herself to visualize her other option: sitting in a salon chair having her hair washed. Soaking in the ambience at Cosmo Cuts. Flipping through the teen magazines her mother never let her buy. The picture brought a smile to her lips. She could get the special conditioning treatment, the cut and style, the blow-dry …

Lisa never skimped, not on anything, especially not on anything to do with horses. If she had, she wouldn’t have been a member of The Saddle Club, the group she, Stevie, and Carole had started. Still, her friends would understand if she had to leave early just this once. “All right, Mom,” she said before she had time to feel guilty, “that sounds good.”

C
AROLE
H
ANSON WAS
the first member of The Saddle Club to arrive at Pine Hollow. She almost always was. Even though all three girls were horse-crazy—being horse-crazy and being willing to help one another out were the two requirements of the club—Carole was a bit crazier. She was passionate about horses. Per her request, her father had dropped her off a full hour before the lesson was to begin.

After giving her horse, Starlight, a good grooming, Carole headed to the tack room to get the gelding’s saddle and bridle, whistling on the way. She had an entire day to spend at the barn, and she couldn’t wait to saddle up. She was going to give Starlight a nice long warm-up to get the kinks out before their dressage lesson. Starlight had been given a few days off over Christmas, and Carole knew he would have some extra energy. If she didn’t work it off before the lesson, he would be skittish in front of Max. Carole always knew when the gelding was going to act up. She knew his faults to a tee—which wasn’t surprising, since she had trained him. It was part of what made them such great partners.

The tack room was empty and quiet. Carole was about to load up with tack when something caught her eye. It was the new edition of
Horseman’s Weekly
. She sat down on a tack trunk to take a quick peek. She liked to thumb
through the paper. First she would skim the horse show results to see if she recognized any names. Then she would read “Pony Club News.” Finally she would take the horseman’s quiz at the back.

This week’s issue was pretty slim, though. It was January, so there weren’t many competitions to cover. Ditto “Pony Club News.” And the quiz was too easy. As if, Carole thought indignantly, there was anyone out there who didn’t know that the walk had four beats; the trot, two; and the canter, three.
Please!
Idly Carole scanned the “Hunt Club News” and the advertisements. She didn’t usually bother with the ads. She wasn’t looking for a horse, after all. But they could be interesting to read. It was fun to imagine what kind of person would be looking for what kind of horse.

“ ‘Ten-point-two Shetland,’ ” Carole read aloud, “ ‘goes English and Western, drives, Pony Clubs.’ ” That was an easy call. A pony like that would go to a little boy or girl looking for a first horse—bought by a parent who put safety first. The ad below the Shetland was completely different: “ ‘Superbly talented four-year-old jumper,’ ” Carole read. That was a horse that would probably go to a professional—somebody like Max, Carole mused, a rider who wanted a horse that could be trained to win, then resold at a profit.

Curious now, Carole read on. There was an Arabian
that sounded like a nice trail horse; an Appaloosa that had won at barrel racing; a seasoned hunter; an unbroken yearling colt. There really seemed to be a horse for every kind of rider under the sun. That was what made horses so fascinating, Carole thought. You could never get to know all of them. The types were endless.

“Carole, you here yet?”

Stevie’s voice startled Carole out of her reverie. “I’m in the tack room!” she called.

A moment later Stevie burst in. “Belle’s a mess,” she announced. “She looks like she’s been rolling in mud for three straight days.” Belle was Stevie’s horse, a Saddlebred-Arabian cross.

“I hate to say it,” Carole joked, “but she probably has been.”

“I know, I know—the pastures are muddy swamps from all the rain,” Stevie said, flopping down beside Carole. She peered over Carole’s shoulder. “What’s this? Oh, cool! The new
Horseman’s Weekly
. Are you looking for a new horse?”

“Of course not!” Carole retorted. “I was just looking at the ads for fun!”

Stevie gave her friend a strange look. “I was just kidding, Carole,” she said.

“O
H
—
RIGHT
,”
SAID
Carole, embarrassed.

“Maybe I should trade Belle in,” Stevie joked, “and get a horse that doesn’t like mud!”

Now Carole laughed for real. Everyone knew that such a horse didn’t exist. “Let’s see … who would you buy?” she asked. “The ‘superbly talented four-year-old?’ ”

“Nah—too green.” Stevie leaned over the newspaper, reading. “Hmmm … How about this one: ‘sixteen-point-two hand, eight-year-old Dutch warmblood. Experienced, high-level dressage horse. Big, floating trot—’ ”

Carole leaned in, too. “Wait, where’s that one? I didn’t see it before.”

Stevie pointed to the ad. “Sounds pretty nice, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Carole, surprised that she had missed it.

“Especially for today’s dressage lesson,” Stevie added. “I love dressage, but I’m sick of it! The Saddlebred in Belle may love the ring, but the Arabian in her wants to be out on the trail. And lately the Arabian is winning!”

“Now, Stevie,” said Carole, assuming a teacherly tone, “flatwork is good for you. Walking, trotting, cantering, figure eights, bending, lengthening and shortening the stride—those are the fundamentals of all equitation. Until one masters—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stevie interrupted, a touch crossly. “I know dressage is good for you. But today I’d just rather … go on a trail ride, okay?” With that she rose, picked up her saddle, and slung Belle’s bridle over her shoulder. Sometimes Carole’s enthusiasm for everything to do with horses got the tiniest bit annoying. Carole would never have understood about wanting to stay home and sleep in. She would never have wanted to make cookies instead of going to the barn. She just didn’t think like that. Starlight was her whole life.

“Do you want to come tack up with me?” Stevie asked, softening her tone.

“In a sec,” Carole replied. “I—uh—I’ll be there in a sec.”

After Stevie had gone, Carole picked up
Horseman’s
Weekly
again. She started to skim the ad columns for the warmblood’s ad.

“Hi, Carole!” called a voice. This time it was Lisa, stopping by to get Prancer’s tack. Hastily Carole closed the newspaper as Lisa stepped through the door.