Horse Trade (3 page)

“It’s a revolting tale,” Phil said.

“I think I have an idea,” Stevie said with a grin, because she had three brothers and the word “revolting” immediately reminded her of them.

As they were searching in the tack room for soap, a bucket, a towel, and a dandy brush, Stevie said, “So, does No-Name’s condition have anything to do with Rachel?” Rachel was Phil’s ten-year-old sister, who could be pretty obnoxious at times.

“Why didn’t my parents stop while they were ahead?” Phil groaned as he carried the bucket to the outdoor tap.

Stevie laughed.

“It’s not only that No-Name needs to be washed and
groomed,” Phil went on. “She has a problem. She’s allergic to something. Mr. Baker says that every so often she breaks out in big welts on her head and neck, and no one knows what causes them. It could be fly spray, or saddle soap, or oil on the tack. Or it could be mold in the hay. Judy Barker, our vet, gave us cortisone and antihistamine to reduce the swelling, so we’ll just have to see.”

“That’s tough,” Stevie said as she poured a line of water down No-Name’s back. “I wouldn’t want to have welts all over my face and neck.”

“Mr. Baker didn’t have time to figure out what she was allergic to, so my dad got this great idea that we could make a trade-off. We’d stable No-Name and get to ride her, and in return Rachel would find out what she was allergic to as a Four-H project.”

“I think I know what went wrong.” Stevie vigorously brushed No-Name’s side. “Rachel.”

“Actually, to be fair to Rachel, she had a problem. The minute No-Name arrived here, she stopped getting hives. That made the job of figuring out the cause of the hives much harder. After a few days Rachel decided that she’d raise chickens for her project instead of caring for No-Name.”

“I always knew that kid had a screw loose,” Stevie said. “Imagine preferring chickens to a horse.”

“It’s kind of hard to believe,” Phil said. “You can’t even ride a chicken.”

“Maybe Rachel can.”

They laughed and stood back to look at No-Name, who wasn’t exactly perfectly groomed—they didn’t have time—but was now gleaming in the early-evening moonlight. No-Name nickered with pleasure.

“I think she can tell the difference between you and Rachel,” Phil said.

“I should hope so!” Stevie said, going with Phil to the tack room to get No-Name’s bridle and saddle.

Phil lifted No-Name’s bridle from its peg and a saddle from a brace along the wall. “The vet told us that hives can be serious. They start at the muzzle and spread backward, sometimes all the way to the tail. Horses can itch them into sores. They can develop an asthmatic condition, too. And anytime a horse is stressed, he can develop digestive problems, and that means colic.”

“Really?” Stevie said. She frowned. That
did
sound serious. Colic could be life threatening.

They walked back outside, and Stevie looked at No-Name’s high, intelligent head and brown eyes. She couldn’t stand the thought that something might happen to her. From now on, Stevie decided, she would keep a special eye on the beautiful mare. If she could, she would find out what was causing No-Name’s terrible hives.

Quickly Stevie tacked up the horse and then mounted her. As she sank gently into the saddle, she sighed with pleasure. This was always one of her favorite moments—feeling herself rise into a different world.

She applied slight pressure with her knees, and No-Name began to walk, tail up, hooves making a brisk clatter on the dirt. No-Name was strong, highly athletic, and seemed to possess a sense of humor, just like Stewball. Somehow, sitting on No-Name’s back made Stevie miss Stewball a little less. As she eased herself into an erect, but flexible, riding posture, Stevie thought that No-Name didn’t have Stewball’s long, loping Western stride. Instead No-Name had a clipped, precise English gait, and this was good. Stevie liked Western riding—it was good for a change of pace—but English was what she had learned first and what would always be her favorite.

Phil was at the gate on Teddy. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Phil bent down, opening the wooden gate. Teddy, who had done this a hundred times, took slow, measured steps while Phil held the gate.

Prancing and sniffing, No-Name walked through the gate. “She needs exercise,” Stevie said. “She’s been cooped up too long.”

“She needs everything,” Phil said, “but most of all she needs someone who cares about her.”

Stevie could tell that Phil was right. She responded so readily to affection and attention—it was as if she needed a special friend.

“She deserves the best,” said Phil.

Stevie glanced over at him. She knew Phil loved horses—all horses, just as she did—but he seemed particularly concerned about No-Name. Stevie had a sudden twinge of curiosity. “You’re not planning to sell Teddy and buy No-Name instead?” she asked.

Phil shook his head. “Teddy’s the one for me.”

As they rode through the hay field behind Phil’s house, the horses looked longingly at the long alfalfa stems with purple blossoms. This was the last crop of the year, and the stems of the alfalfa were thick and juicy and the blooms were fat. Winter was coming, and soon the animals would be living on hay. Stevie kept a firm rein on No-Name, letting her know that now was not the right time for feeding. It was bad discipline to let a horse eat with a rider on her back.

When they got to Cross County, the other riders were milling around, getting ready. Riders could be the slowest people on earth, Stevie decided. So she and Phil climbed off their horses and sat on top of the wooden fence, letting the horses graze in the grass and weeds at the bottom of the fence.

“Maybe No-Name is allergic to hay,” Stevie commented.
Her head was still filled with thoughts about what had caused No-Name’s hives.

“That could be,” Phil mused. “But she hasn’t had an attack since we got her, and she’s been eating hay in her stall”

“Hmmm,” said Stevie. “It’s going to be complicated figuring out what she’s allergic to.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Phil agreed.

At this moment the members of the Cross County Pony Club filed out of the barn.

“At least we’ll make it out on the trail before midnight,” Stevie muttered to Phil as they got back on their horses.

Mr. Baker lined up the horses, alternating experienced riders with less experienced ones. Phil rode over to the stable manager and said that he and Stevie could bring up the rear.

“That’s altruistic of you,” Mr. Baker said with a smile. But then he nodded and added, “You and Stevie are experienced riders, just the kind that I need to bring up the end in case anything happens.”

When Phil rode back to Stevie, he said, “We’re the caboose.”

At the other end of the line Mr. Baker lifted his hand and called, “Riders ready?”

“Ready,” came voices all down the line. At that Mr. Baker and his horse headed off into the woods.

Stevie, riding just ahead of Phil, called back, “It’s a good thing Teddy isn’t afraid of the dark anymore.” The red harvest moon was low, and shadows were long and wobbly. Twigs and branches seemed to thunder under the horses’ hooves.

Next thing Stevie knew, Phil and Teddy were next to her. “I could feel Teddy starting to spook,” Phil said. “I guess he’s not a hundred percent over it. I think he’ll benefit from the companionship of you and No-Name.”

“I’m sure,” Stevie said, suppressing her grin. Sometimes Phil could be pretty transparent. It wasn’t just Teddy he was thinking about; he clearly wanted to be near Stevie. Phil wasn’t just a great rider, she thought. He was also a great schemer—almost as good as she was.

The path wound up a hill and through a pine grove, where the ground was silver with needles. Off to the left there was a crash in the underbrush, and a deer came bounding across the path.

Stevie held her breath, because this was exactly what had happened on the MTO—a sudden noise, a deer running across the road, and then Teddy had bucked, throwing Phil. And now, worse yet, it was dark.

Teddy switched his head from side to side, nickering, but held firm.

“He’ll make it,” Phil said, turning toward her in the dark. “You’re a good influence. If we’d been alone, I’d still be here, but Teddy would be halfway back to the stable by now.”

Next thing Stevie knew, she and Phil were holding hands and riding so close their knees brushed each other. It was a great foursome, Stevie thought, she and Phil and No-Name and Teddy.

As they climbed the hill, the air became cooler and dryer. “We’re getting above the river mist,” Phil said. At night the Silverado River, which was only a mile away, tended to send off a curl of mist that lay low over the fields and then rolled up the ravines.

“Mr. Weatherman,” Stevie teased.

“Hey,” Phil said, “I’m just looking ahead. You never know.”

Suddenly there was a ripple of excitement down the line of horses. When it reached No-Name, she switched her tail. Teddy tossed his head, as if he were agreeing with her. Stevie looked up and saw that the clouds seemed closer now. They were so low and flat and bright that she felt as if she could touch them.

“Ideal conditions,” Phil said, looking up at the clouds.

Ideal for what? Stevie wondered. But before she could ask him, there was a clearing ahead, and the horses broke into an easy trot. Rising in her seat, feeling No-Name’s
excitement, Stevie looked ahead and saw a field of hay in the moonlight. In sunlight, she knew, this field would be dusted with pink and purple flowers, but now, in the moonlight, it seemed to be made of silver.

Mr. Baker’s voice floated back from the front, telling them they were going to canter and that they should stay on the trail—the farmer who owned this land wouldn’t appreciate their going into his field. As Mr. Baker gave a signal, Stevie touched No-Name’s belly behind her girth, giving her permission to canter.

No-Name took off, head stretching forward, ears up, loving it, ready to run forever. Stevie had a flash of some Arabian ancestor of No-Name’s galloping along a desert track, fierce and indefatigable, running toward the desert moon.

Teddy and Phil were beside them, matching them step for step. Stevie looked over and saw Phil’s green eyes widen as he looked over the hill ahead. Stevie looked ahead and saw that a finger of mist had crept up a ravine onto this part of the hill.

“Riders, slow,” came Mr. Baker’s voice.

Stevie put her hand on No-Name’s neck and leaned back, wondering if No-Name would respond. A tremor ran along No-Name’s neck because, as Stevie knew, she had just been getting warmed up. But No-Name slowed to a walk. A few minutes later, they were enveloped by the
mist. Stevie could barely make out the other riders and horses.

Next to her Phil reached for her hand. As he leaned over in his saddle to kiss her, she bent toward him, but their romantic moment was interrupted by No-Name, who whinnied and pranced. Next thing Stevie knew, she and Phil were hanging on to each other to keep from falling off their horses. With a tremendous effort Stevie pulled herself back into her saddle. Phil did the same.

“Riders assemble.” Mr. Baker’s voice floated through the mist.

As Stevie and Phil rode out of the fog, Mr. Baker loomed up in front of them in his black riding helmet and tweed hacking jacket. “Mist is rising from the valley,” he said. “It can make footing treacherous and uncertain. We’ll have to head back for the stable.”

There was a discontented murmuring among the riders, but everyone knew that Mr. Baker was right.

“Phil and Stevie, you lead the way back,” Mr. Baker said.

With twelve riders behind them, staring at their backs, the chances for a kiss did not look good, Stevie thought. She smiled to herself, thinking about No-Name’s reaction to her leaning out of the saddle, and she leaned forward to pat No-Name’s neck affectionately. But No-Name twitched to throw off Stevie’s hand. Thanks a lot, Stevie
thought. First you wreck a kiss and now you won’t let me pat you. I thought we were friends.

Then Stevie realized that No-Name’s coat felt unaccountably lumpy. She peered at the horse more closely, straining to see in the moonlight.

It couldn’t be. But it was. There was a lump on the tender curve of No-Name’s left ear. Another at its base. As Stevie frantically examined the area around No-Name’s head and neck, she felt welts on No-Name’s muzzle and the underside of her neck.

No-Name had hives.

“She’s allergic to the soap we used,” Stevie whispered in horror. “No, she’s probably allergic to
me
.”

“I
T WASN
’
T AS
much fun as I thought it would be,” Stevie admitted.

“What could be bad about a moonlight ride?” asked Carole as she chewed on the end of a straw. The three members of The Saddle Club were holding a brief Saddle Club meeting before class on Tuesday afternoon.

“It started off fine,” Stevie told them. “I was riding this great horse that’s staying at Phil’s stable.”

“What’s the horse’s name?” Lisa asked.

“No-Name,” Stevie said.

“A horse has got to have a name,” Carole said, crossing her arms.

“She does,” Stevie said. “Her name is No-Name.”