

Special Smashwords Edition

# Fire and Ice Young Adult Books

#  Horse Sampler  
Volume 1

# Featuring:

# Caroline Akervik  
Shannon Kennedy  
Patricia Gilkerson

Published by

Fire and Ice  
A Yount Adult Imprint of Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.fireandiceya.com

A Horse Named Viking, Copyright 2013 by Caroline Akervik

No Horse Wanted, Copyright 2013 by Shannon Kennedy

The Penny Pony, Copyright 2013 by Patricia Gilkerson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should go to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Caroline Andrus

Table of Contents

A sampling of horse stories from Fire and Ice Young Adult Books.

This is a free e-book sampler.

Please visit the retailer of your choice, or www.fireandiceya.com, to purchase each full length book.

A Horse Named Viking by Caroline Akervik

A rogue. An outlaw. An unlikely hero. Viking is the sole offspring of a savage and vicious mare. The colt is the pride of the stable until his dam kills a groom in her stall. Viking is a painful reminder of the tragedy, and so he is sold off.

The black colt has a coarse face and a mean curl to his nostrils, but he is beautifully proportioned with magnificent gaits. With his teeth and thick weapon of a tail, Viking brutalizes everyone who handles him and humiliates the best trainers in the world until Anne O'Neil from the United States tries him.

The first time she rides him, she declares that she will not buy him if he was the last apple in the barrel. The second time, she rides him with a different philosophy, as if he is as sensitive as one of her Thoroughbreds, and she is amazed by the results. Kindness and sugar turn out to be the keys to Viking's heart. Viking and Anne become rising stars until a cruel and brutal trainer seeks to crush his spirit.

A Horse Named Viking follows the life journey of an incredible, unforgettable horse.

No Horse Wanted by Shannon Kennedy (Shamrock Stables #1)

The only thing that Robin Gibson wants for her sixteenth birthday is a 1968 Presidential Blue Mustang. Following their family tradition, what her parents promise her is a horse of her own, one with four legs, not four wheels. Mom competes in endurance riding, Dad does calf roping, her older brother games and her older sister loves three-day eventing, but Robin proudly says that she doesn't do horses. She'll teach her controlling family a lesson by bringing home the worst horse she can find, a starved, abused two-year-old named Twaziem.

Robin figures she'll nurse him back to health, sell him, and have the money for her car. Rescuing and rehabilitating the Morab gelding might be a bigger challenge than what she planned. He comes between her and her family. He upsets her friends when she looks after his needs first. Is he just an investment or is he part of her future? And if she lets him into her heart will she win or will she lose?

The Penny Pony by Patricia Gilkerson (The Horse Rescuer #1)

Piper Jones has always loved horses, but little did she know what would happen when she and her best friend, Addie tried to help a neglected pony. When all the adults in her life can't or won't help, Piper and Addie take matters into their own hands. They must find a safe haven for the pony and protect it from its cruel owner. A little old lady from Piper's past steps up to help and a suspected liar proves he's not a bad guy at all. But as the girls try to solve a mystery involving the suspicious owner, will they be forced into crime themselves in order to save their new-found pony friend?

A Horse Named Viking  
by Caroline Akervik

Chapter One

Viking was an unforgettable horse, proud, powerful and vitally alive. He had a way of humbling you, making you feel earthbound and insignificant in comparison. There were other times when he took a rider with him; when he elevated a person to the sublime plane where only a truly great horse can take a rider. In his glory days, his fans regarded him as a mystical beast that had been tamed. They didn't know a teddy bear's heart beat inside his muscular body. He was one of those animals that touched your life, and left it permanently altered. This is his story.

The possibility that this foal could be the once-in-a-lifetime chance every horse lover dreams of drove Kurt Pritzl, a Danish horse breeder, from his warm bed in the middle of the night when the foaling monitor went off.

"What is it?" his wife, Lena, mumbled.

"Carpia's foaling." He threw on clothing.

"Do you need me to call the vet?"

"No, I'll do it. You go back to sleep."

He made the necessary phone call then stumbled out into the cold miserably damp March night. At times like this, he wondered at his own sanity in running a horse farm. In his sleepy state, he didn't derive his usual satisfaction from viewing the tidy barn and well fenced pastures that he'd built himself. Kurt and his wife were computer programmers, but this farm and the six mares that he kept and bred each year were his passion. As he slid the aluminum barn door wide and stepped into the aisle, the sweet, organic heat of the animals embraced him while his eyes watered from the powerful ammonia smell of mare urine.

As he proceeded down the aisle, he peered into the stalls, checking on each mare and her foal, as was his usual custom. His broodmares were fat and shiny, with well-groomed coats that reflected a golden sheen below the stall night-lights. Just looking at them gave him joy. His love for them and the hope of one day producing an approved breeding stallion drove him. Every day he was up before dawn watering, haying, graining, turning out, and mucking stalls. His evening chores included grooming and handling the new foals so that they trusted people. It was difficult for him to get away even for a single day, but the early mornings, hard work, and limits on his freedom were well worth the pleasure he derived from caring for his animals.

In the evenings, his twelve-year old daughter assisted him. Charlotte was a born horsewoman with a gift for handling horses. A hard worker, Charlotte was eager for his praise and proved to be an asset to the farm. They enjoyed the camaraderie of their evenings together in the barn. Most nights, Lena repeatedly called them in for dinner because they would be so caught up in working with the mares, in talking about them. Kurt was also proud of what a talented young rider Charlotte was proving to be. He firmly believed the old saying that "the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a person." As he often told his wife when defending their long hours in the barn: "Caring for the animals teaches Charlotte compassion and discipline, and keeps her out of trouble. There's a method to my madness." Lena would just shake her head and roll her eyes. She didn't share her daughter and husband's passion for horses, but she accepted it and supported them. She was proud of their accomplishments.

He heard a deep equine groan as he came to the foaling stall. The almost black mare named Carpia lay on her side, well advanced with labor, her great mountain of a stomach rising up and down like a bellows with her efforts. White lather formed on her sides and flanks. Her neck and head were black with sweat. He inhaled the warm, salty scent of straining horse.

He tried to enter the stall, to help her, but she struggled awkwardly to her feet and lunged for him with teeth bared. A few moments later, he tried again. She responded in the same way. Then he gave up, having decided his interference was distracting her from the work of pushing her foal out.

"Has she foaled yet?"

Kurt spun about to see Charlotte walking towards him. She wore a heavy coat over her pajamas and clogs over her stocking feet.

"What are you doing up at this hour? Does your mother know you're out here?" He pressed his lips firmly together to keep from grinning.

"Mom said as long as I'm with you, it's okay I'm out here."

"What about school tomorrow, young lady?"

"Dad, it's Friday night." She gazed at him with the impatience that all soon-to-be teenagers exhibit when confronting their parents' obtuseness. "Please, let me stay... I want to see Carpia's colt born."

"Sweetheart, you'll be exhausted tomorrow. It's the middle of the night. You can see the foal in the morning. You've seen other mares foal before."

"But not Carpia. Please, Dad. I'm the only person that she likes."

It was true; the foul tempered mare who had come to his farm heavily pregnant only a month before had managed to leave scars on everyone who handled her with the exception of Charlotte. Carpia even behaved herself when the young girl groomed her. Kurt had tried forbidding his daughter to go near the mare, but he was well aware that Charlotte ignored his orders. He turned a blind eye because he was justifiably proud of her ability with horses and because he had confidence in her judgment. She had grown up around horses and knew her way around them.

"All right, Charlotte." He squeezed her shoulder. "You can stay up."

"Thanks, Dad." Impulsively, she hugged him.

Kurt held her close. She was growing up so quickly. Hugs like this one were becoming more uncommon. "Now run back to the house and tell your mother you'll be staying out here. There's still plenty of time."

"She already knows. Mom said she'll see the new little guy tomorrow."

Kurt nodded his head. He was used to the two women in his life making decisions and only filling him in afterwards. "Charlotte, what makes you so sure that Carpia will have a colt?"

"I just know it, and he's going to be good enough to be approved by both the Danish Warmblood Association and the Holsteiner Verband. And when he's grown up, I'll show him. I'm not sure if he'll be a jumper or a dressage horse, but he's going to be a champion."

Kurt draped his arm about his daughter's narrow shoulders. "That would be fine."

Father and daughter stood there companionably, brimming with anticipation.

"Shouldn't the vet be here?" Charlotte had witnessed a birth before, but the mare's obvious distress disturbed her.

"Dr. Olson is on his way, but Carpia's doing fine. The labor is progressing normally. She's a good-sized mare—I don't see her having any problems delivering this foal. Besides, she's a fighter. Don't worry."

The mare groaned and a great shudder seemed to pass through her.

"Look, Daddy, Look!"

Moments later, the wet, dark shape of Carpia's foal lay on the ground. He was moving almost immediately, breaking through the slick birth sack. Carpia raised her head out of the straw and turned to nuzzle her baby affectionately. Her ears tipped forward curiously, her dark eyes were velvet soft.

Kurt squeezed Charlotte's shoulder. He ran a breeding farm, witnessed many births each year, but the experience remained miraculous and overwhelming to him.

"She's going to be a fine mother. With a temperament like hers, you can never be sure. I was worried we'd have to foster her foal out. But it looks like I was wrong. She's going to be just fine."

"Look at them. She keeps nuzzling him. She loves him."

The new little one raised his head at the sound of their voices, his eyes bright in the darkness.

"Hello, hello. How's the patient?" The stocky, dark shape of Dr. Olson appeared in the opened doorway.

Kurt immediately went to greet the other man.

Quick as a wink, before anyone could stop her, Charlotte slid the bolt back, and opened the stall door, stepping into the stall. Carpia lunged to her feet and thrust her body between Charlotte and her foal.

"Easy, Mommy. I won't hurt him. I just want to see him." Fearlessly, Charlotte held her hand outstretched with her palm up, fingers close together, so the mare could sniff her.

"Charlotte! What are you doing? Get out of there!" Kurt hurried to the stall door, but Carpia blocked him with her teeth bared and her ears pinned back. He couldn't see his daughter. "Charlotte? Charlotte, are you all right?"

"Yes, Dad. He's beautiful! A colt, just like I said. And he's not afraid of me at all. He looks black."

"Honey, I want you to move slowly. Back away from that colt. Olson, do you have that tranquilizer shot ready?" He sought to peer around the black mare.

"In a minute. You know I don't like giving a mare something right after delivering but," the vet was on his knees by his medical kit, preparing the shot, when Charlotte reappeared at the mare's shoulder. Carpia relaxed her ears as the girl stood stroking her neck.

"You have to see him!"

"Charlotte, get out of there!"

"Daddy, relax, she's fine." Nevertheless, Charlotte obediently stepped through the opened stall door. As soon as she was within reach, her father grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close then slammed the door shut.

"Promise me you'll never do that again. That mare is dangerous. You have to stay away from her. I've been wrong to let you work with her. But after a mare foals, they can become very protective of their babies. You have to respect that and keep away from her. It's not fair to her."

Charlotte tugged herself free. "I'm sorry, Dad. I wanted to get close to him. I won't bother her anymore... The little guy... He's awesome."

"What am I going to do with you? You get to bed now. I don't want to hear any arguments. You've seen the new foal. Tell your mother I'll be in in a little while. Dr. Olson has to get in there and check him out."

"You won't hurt Carpia, will you?"

"Of course not. But we can't let her hurt Dr. Olson either."

"Hear, hear, Kurt." Dr. Olson agreed. "Don't worry, Charlotte, you know I have a way with the new mothers. Carpia and I will get on famously. "

"Good night, Dad, Dr. Olson."

"Good night, Charlotte."

"That daughter of yours would make a fine vet," Olson commented.

"She about gives Lena and me heart failure sometimes. I just wish she had a little healthy fear."

"You're lucky. I can't even get my girls near horses. All they're interested in is movies and boys."

Moving cautiously, the two men set to work. Though Carpia was grudging, she did permit them to perform the necessary tasks.

"Just look at him," Olson observed, "standing already. He's a strong one, and well built."

Sure enough, the black colt was upright on his spindly legs. He trembled, but held his head high. Then, he collapsed back into the straw where he snorted in chagrin.

"He's dark, like Carpia," Olson related. "Not much white, just a tiny star and that one white ankle. But he's a good-looking little guy, and tough. He's going to try it again."

This time the colt stayed up, and even managed a few halting steps to his mother's side, where he quickly got the hang of nursing.

"You don't need to worry about this one, Kurt. He's got everything under control." Sweaty and well pleased, the vet held out his hand to offer a congratulatory handshake.

Kurt took the other man's hand as he eyed the colt contemplatively. For a newborn, he was robust and feisty. Maybe Charlotte was right. Maybe this colt would be the breeding stallion and performance horse that would make their fortunes. For a moment, he indulged himself in the kind of daydreams that afflict all horse lovers—he imagined his daughter, dressed in the black and white formal attire of the international levels of dressage, mounted on a magnificent black stallion leading a victory gallop at the Olympic Games. The odds against this little colt achieving such success were immeasurable. And yet, perhaps...

Chapter Two

On an unusually sunny Saturday afternoon, Charlotte and her father stood watching Carpia and her new son out in the paddock by the barn. The mare and foal were alone. Kurt usually waited a week or two before turning a new foal out with his herd of broodmares and colts. Though less than a week old, the colt frolicked in the grassy area.

Charlotte stood with her feet on the bottom fence rail and her elbows resting on the top. She sighed audibly. "Isn't he beautiful, Dad? Do you think that he'll be brown or black?"

"He'll be nearly black, like his dam, once he loses the baby fuzz. I wish he was a little flashier, had more white on him," Kurt commented critically. "It's always easier to sell a flashy horse."

"But you're not going to sell him anyway. And you know what they say about one white leg: 'One white leg, buy a horse, two white legs, try a horse, three white legs, look well about him, four white legs, go without him.' He's a keeper."

"We'll see, honey." Kurt chewed on a blade of hay thoughtfully, and then dropped it into the mud at his feet. Though he didn't want to get his hopes up, there was something special about Carpia's foal, beautifully proportioned from the tips of his black ears to his bushy tail. He moved lightly and effortlessly on his feet, and was as agile as a cat. "He's an athletic little guy, and the mare has turned out to be a fine mother," he commented as Carpia whinnied, calling her son back to her when he strayed too far from her side. She nuzzled him when he charged up.

"What are you two up to?" Lena asked as she carefully maneuvered her way towards them. Her eyes were on the ground, seeking to find the most solid and dry spots for her high-heeled shoes. She was a petite, soft woman with a kind face, but clearly not dressed for the barn in a formal coat and skirt, and scarf ensemble.

"Just watching them," Kurt answered. "Why are you all dressed up?"

Lena rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Don't tell me you've forgotten today is Karen Thompson's birthday. I told you we were going weeks ago. It's on the calendar."

"You didn't say anything to me about it this morning."

"I didn't think I had to remind you." She glanced at her watch. "We're still fine for time. Charlotte, I was going to ask you to come with me to get the present, but you still have to finish up in the barn then shower and change. I'll go pick something up by myself. Can I count on you both to be ready to go in an hour and a half?"

"Yes. Sorry, it slipped my mind." Kurt pecked his wife on the cheek.

"An hour and a half, young lady. Do you understand me?" She wagged her finger at her daughter in a mock serious fashion.

"Yes, Mom. That's plenty of time."

"Not if you stand around mooning over those two horses all afternoon... That's Carpia, isn't it? Her foal is darling."

"Mom," her daughter groaned. "He's not 'darling.' He's impressive."

"Charlotte, you know that for me most foals look pretty much the same, but that one is especially cute."

"Looks like the gamble of buying Carpia might pay off," Kurt said. For him, this was high praise.

Lena stared for another long moment at the black colt. "He does have a way about him, doesn't he? An hour and a half. I'm counting on you." With that, she turned and began to make her way back to the house.

Charlotte glanced up at her father. "What do you mean it was a gamble to buy Carpia? I heard you tell Dr. Olson she was a steal with her show record and her bloodlines."

"Yes, she was a really good show jumper. She won at some big competitions then she got hurt. She had the reputation of being hard to handle, witchy, and she only got worse once she was laid up. She went after a groom who was cleaning her stall at her last owners. She banged the guy up pretty badly, broke his leg and some ribs."

"Carpia's not like that anymore. I'm sure that guy did something to her first."

He tapped her on the nose with his index finger. "It doesn't matter if he did, Charlotte. You know that. Even though Carpia seems to like you, she's a dangerous and unpredictable animal. You have to be on your toes around any horse, but especially that one. She has a history of being tough, and not just at her last home. That mare has changed hands often because she is difficult with a capital D. The last guy who owned her didn't know what to do with her. Her competitive career was finished, so he bred her. I made him a ridiculously low offer and he took it, glad to be rid of her."

"If she's so bad, why did you buy her?"

"She's one of the last of a really special Holsteiner bloodline. I talked it over with your mother, and we agreed that it was worth giving Carpia a chance. She's taken to motherhood like a duck to water."

"I knew she'd be a fine." The girl fell silent for a moment as she studied the pair. "What are we going to name him?"

Kurt glanced over at his daughter. For a horse breeder, the study of bloodlines was both a favorite and necessary activity. Charlotte had just started taking an interest and he enjoyed sharing his knowledge with her. She was learning more with the birth of each new foal on their farm. "His grandfather was a great stallion named 'Canute the Viking.' I think this colt is going to be a top stallion in his own right." He glanced at his daughter expectantly. "I want a name that will recall his grandfather, but will also be uniquely his. I was thinking of something like Olav."

"No, Dad, that's too...I don't know."

"Olav Haraldsson was a famous king of Norway."

"Yeah, I remember the story, Dad. But he left the country as soon as Canute arrived, didn't even fight him. This colt wouldn't do that. He would fight to the end."

Kurt smiled. Like many young girls, Charlotte was idealistic and imaginative. She liked reading about knights and quests, so he wasn't surprised that she endowed her favorite colt with heroic qualities. But it was too soon to say anything about the character of the two-week-old colt cavorting before them.

"I think you're selling Olav short, but you don't like it... So, how about King Harald? He was another famous Viking."

"No, that's not right either. It's not...cool enough."

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"I wanted to name him something neat like Zorro or Midnight. But his grandfather, this Viking horse, he was a really good one, right?"

"Canute was an impressive bay, not black like this one, but this colt has that same 'look of eagles' in his eyes. You see! Right there when he tosses his head. His eyes are big, bold and fierce. He reminds me of his grandfather."

"What about his father?"

"Leif Erikson can jump the moon. I saw him at the stallion approval. But he's very young. It's too soon to say anything about him. This colt is from his first crop."

"I've got it! Just call him Viking!"

Kurt groaned. "I was going for something more dignified, less violent, especially since Carpia is his dam."

"Come on, Dad. You were going to name him after a Viking anyway, and he's going to be the greatest Viking of his family. I just know it! Please Dad. It suits him... Hey, little Viking," Charlotte called out to the colt.

Little Viking raised his head high, and trotted over. He stopped a horse's length away from her. He eyed them challengingly, snorted and pawed at the ground.

"Look at him, Dad. He looks like a Viking."

But Kurt was watching his daughter. It was obvious the colt entranced her. He savored his feeling of paternal pride. "All right, honey, we'll call him Viking."

"Really? Cool! Thanks, Dad!" She grinned as she jumped off the fence rail on which she was standing. Her sudden move caused the black colt to leap away and go tearing across the field.

"I just hope he's more of a peace lover than his mother."

Chapter Three

About two weeks later, on a particularly windy, rainy morning, Kurt led Carpia out to the pasture to join the other mares and their foals. He was in a bit of a hurry as he was running late. He already had his suit on under his raincoat—he had an important meeting scheduled for nine. All he had to do was finish this task and change his shoes. He kept a wary eye on Carpia. Though focused on her colt, she still managed to sneak nips at him. He didn't have time to change if she tore anything, and he didn't fancy meeting new clients with horse snot on his sleeve. Viking danced along beside his mother, sometimes charging forward then racing back to her side squealing.

When he came to the gate, Kurt noted the other three mares and their foals milling about the hay crib. On seeing Carpia, one mare whinnied a greeting. Kurt slid the chain from around Carpia's nose and released her. He stepped back quickly in case she kicked out, but slipped in the wet, mucky ground and almost went down. The cold wind was making his nose run, but he'd forgotten his handkerchief. He inhaled sharply, drawing in the smell of horse manure and dark, wet earth. He glanced down at his pant leg in some irritation. He had gotten mud on it. Despite how pressed he was for time, he waited to make sure that Carpia and her colt were safely accepted into the small group. It had been an impulsive decision to put her back out with the other horses. Another mare had foaled the previous night, occupying the paddock by the barn, and he hadn't wanted to leave Carpia and Viking indoors all day.

Viking rushed headlong towards the other horses. His ears were up, and he let out a shrill, excited call. His mother trotted after him, her still large belly flopping to each side with her movement. It was then that Music, a chestnut mare who had replaced Carpia as herd boss in the other mare's absence, reacted to the foal charging towards her. She turned, pinned her ears back and lunged straight at Viking. The colt changed direction seemingly in mid-air so that the mare's teeth just grazed him on one side. He squealed in pain.

Carpia immediately took action. She bore down on Music, and crashed straight into the other mare with her chest and shoulders, driving her to the ground. While Music struggled to rise, Carpia, with white-rimmed eyes, rose on her hind legs and drove down with her sharp hooves. Music managed to get up, but still couldn't escape the other mare's fury. Carpia chased after her, her long neck extended as she sought to sink her teeth into Music's rump.

Kurt stood there, frozen in disbelief. It appeared Carpia had gone mad. Now, she was going after the other mares as well as their foals. Wildly, she charged about the small herd, driving them away from her own colt.

Kurt ran into the barn and got a long whip. He hurried back to the field. He couldn't worry about his business meeting; he had a major situation on his hands. Viking was now standing at his mother's side. Carpia had her head low and her ears back. She was glaring at the terrorized group huddled in a far corner of the paddock. Kurt didn't dare go near her in her current state. The better plan was to bring the other mares and foals in first. The gate was a good distance away from where Carpia stood watch over her colt. Still, it proved quite a challenge for Kurt to catch the other terrified horses and to convince them to go past Carpia and Viking.

Once he had the others in, Kurt called in to work and explained that he would be late. Then, he used all of the tricks he knew to catch the difficult mare. To attract her attention, he shook a bucket of oats. He held out sugar. She got closer with the sugar, then just as he was about to drop a lead shank over her neck, she spun away.

About an hour later, when he finally caught her, he was exhausted, filthy and infuriated. As he showered and changed, he deliberately ignored a niggling sense of foreboding concerning Carpia and her colt. He sought to convince himself that this episode was merely a minor setback. Then he deliberately focused his attention back on the business proposal he was making to the clients he had inconvenienced that morning.

Carpia and her colt were never turned out with the other horses again.

* * * *

Carpia became increasingly possessive of her colt as the weeks went by. She not only snapped at anyone who entered her stall, she grazed on her handlers. To make matters worse, Viking was already nipping at people with his square milk teeth. Kurt made sure he was the only one who handled the pair.

He liked to gentle his foals, to spend time with them while they were still little, to get them used to people. He believed it was important that his foals learned to trust. It was simply not possible for him to do such work with Viking. Carpia wouldn't allow it.

To Kurt's immense dismay, Carpia did permit one person around Viking. On more than one evening, he had found Charlotte in the stall with the black pair, crooning to the colt and stroking him, all under his mother's watchful gaze. Surprisingly, the mare didn't seem to mind the girl's presence.

He ordered his daughter to stay away from them with the threat of punishment should she disobey, "There'll be no more riding lessons if I find you in that stall again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Dad." She glared at him mutinously.

"It's for your own good, honey."

And she had stayed out of Carpia's stall, but she'd maintained her relationship with the mare by visiting her out in the pasture and by feeding her sugar cubes and carrots through the bars on her stall door.

Kurt looked forward to weaning the colt. He'd already decided to sell Carpia once she weaned her foal. She was not in foal for the next season. She had gone after the stallion when he had sought to rebreed her. Kurt had decided that she was an accident waiting to happen and he wanted her well away from Charlotte. Carpia was too much trouble to have around. Nevertheless, he didn't even want to consider where she might end up given her history and reputation.

Chapter Four

All was going well until an unfortunate day when Kurt took two of the mares with their foals to a breed show several hours away. Ulrik, an occasional helper, had agreed to tend to the remaining animals. Ulrik was a scruffy older man who owned a small farm nearby, and had once ridden three-day eventers, but had never been very good. He had lacked any feeling for his mounts, driving them brutally. Kurt knew Ulrik was a bad tempered fellow who drank too much but he showed up for work whenever Kurt requested it of him. He was reliable and willing to work for little pay.

Kurt gave Ulrik instructions when the other man showed up at dawn. "I wouldn't leave the mares and foals out for long; it looks like it's going to be a rainy day. We'll be home late. There's no need to wait for us...Oh, one more thing, Ulrik. Don't do anything with Carpia and her foal. She's been difficult lately."

"I'll need to move her to clean her stall," Ulrik grunted as he exhaled into the other man's face.

Kurt's stomach turned at the stench. "Don't worry about that stall. They'll be all right for today. Make sure they have water. Toss them down some hay from the loft, and dump their grain in. Just don't go in there."

"Right, boss," Ulrik started to shuffle away.

Kurt felt a vague sense of unease as he stared after the other man's dark green raincoat.

"Come on, Dad," Charlotte called from her rolled down car window.

"All right. All right. I'm coming."

As Ulrik cleaned the stalls and turned the other horses out, he passed by Carpia's big box. To torment her, he would slide his hand across the bars on the front of her stall as he went. True to form, the mare would then lunge at the bars, her ears pinned back, her eyes wild. Ulrik derived perverse pleasure from her excitability. Carpia got under his skin. It irritated him to no end that the mare got special treatment. She had the best stall in the place, and the boss took special care of her. In Ulrik's eyes, she deserved just the opposite. He also deeply resented the many times that she'd bitten him. Ulrik, like Charlotte, but for contrary reasons, could not leave Carpia alone.

By mid-afternoon, he had finished most of his duties. He had only to wait around to feed the evening meal. He sat down on a hay bale opposite Carpia's stall. She raised her elegant black head, her silken nostrils flaring.

"What are you looking at?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered flask. He took a swig; it was not his first for the day.

The mare snorted.

"You'd like to tell him, wouldn't you? It's your bad luck that it's just me here." He took another long swallow.

Carpia tossed her head defiantly.

"If you were my horse, I would straighten you out...What the hell, I'm the only one here. Kurt will be thankful if I teach you a little respect.

Taking a whip in one hand and a pitchfork in the other, he opened the latch to her stall. He stumbled as he entered. He realized he was more than a little drunk.

"I can still handle you, you black witch." Belying his words, his hands shook as he moved forward with the pitchfork extended out before him.

The mare did nothing at first, merely sniffed the scent of him, the odor of his fear mixing with the reek of alcohol. Then, she snaked her head low and charged him, meaning to drive him out. Ulrik poked her in the chest with the pitchfork, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to stop her.

"Now let's see who's in charge." Gaining confidence, and wielding his pitchfork, he drove her back into the corner. She retreated from the pain, but kept her body between the intruder's and her colt.

Ulrik smacked her across the chest with the whip. She leaped forward, but he used the pitchfork to keep her from attacking him. "Don't like this, do you?" He grinned malevolently. "If you got more discipline, you would behave yourself." He smacked her again. She trembled this time, but didn't move. Her eyes were white rimmed and frantic.

Viking, the colt, unaware of what was being done to his mother, but sensing her pain and anger, suddenly darted curiously out from behind her.

Defensively, Ulrik slashed the whip across the colt's face. Viking squealed in pain and fear. Carpia jumped forward, desperate to defend her foal. Ulrik jabbed her hard this time. "Get back! Get back now! Damn you!"

Now, the colt was in one corner. Ulrik's pitchfork held the mare in the other. Carpia panicked. Viking nickered to his mother, a shrill baby cry of fear.

Despite his drunken state, Ulrik realized that he had discovered the means of getting to the mare. He poked with his whip at the colt. The mare jigged in place. Ulrik jabbed her with the pitchfork again for good measure. Then, he smacked the colt hard across the rump. Viking screamed in pain. His mother reared up on her hind legs and struck at Ulrik. In her need to defend her baby, Carpia was oblivious to pain, even when the cruel prongs thrust into her shoulder and her belly.

Terrified, Ulrik fell back into the straw as Carpia drove down at him with her punishing hooves.

Chapter Five

Kurt was bone tired when he pulled into the stable yard that night. Charlotte was already asleep, her head tilted back against the headrest, her mouth open. As they pulled in, he decided not to wake her. He could unload the horses well enough by himself. Strangely, the barn lights were still on. Ulrik had obviously forgotten to shut them off.

"He doesn't pay the bill," he muttered under his breath. He decided to check the barn first before unloading the horses from the trailer. After all, he didn't need Charlotte walking in half asleep and finding Ulrik passed out drunk on a tack trunk.

He strode through the door and down the aisle way. The horses were in their stalls, but several whinnied to him as if expecting some food.

"Didn't he feed you? Where is Ulrik?"

It was then that he saw Carpia's door was open.

* * * *

A week later, Kurt again found himself standing outside of Carpia's stall contemplating a tragic situation, but of a different nature. "Honey, we had to do it. There was no other way," he stated morosely to his daughter.

Charlotte didn't answer for a moment. Then, she glanced away from Viking in order to glare bitterly at her father. "You know he hasn't eaten since you killed his mother."

"It had to be done. It wasn't my decision. The authorities demanded it. Carpia savaged Ulrik. It's a miracle that he's alive, and it'll be months before he's back on his feet again... Honey, she didn't suffer. Dr. Olson made sure it was painless." His daughter shook his hand off her shoulder. "Charlotte, you're not being reasonable about this. Your mother and I already explained this to you. That mare loathed people. She was a menace. It was only a matter of time before... well, before something happened. I knew that, and I did nothing about her. I'll always regret it. Ulrik was hurt badly because of my poor judgment. I just hope and pray he recovers completely from all of his injuries. Thank goodness the farm insurance will cover his medical expenses."

"It wasn't her fault, Dad, and you know it. The police said Ulrik had been drinking. You saw the pitchfork marks on her chest, and the welts on Viking. Ulrik went after them. She just defended Viking." Tears poured down her face.

"There's no point in going over this again. What's done is done. The mare's gone. And there's no point in blaming me. You heard what the animal control officer concluded. He said she had to be put down because this wasn't an isolated incident. She had a documented history of harming people. Carpia determined her own fate. They would have taken her away and destroyed her if I hadn't had Dr. Olson do it here."

"Why didn't you let me stay here when Dr. Olson... when he did it?" The volume of her voice rose with anguish.

He took a deep breath, praying for patience. He was simply uncomfortable dealing with her when she was so emotional. He felt guilty enough as it was. "I told you what was going to happen. I didn't think it was necessary or helpful for you to watch her be put down."

"It's just so... so awful, Daddy."

She was completely beside herself, and Kurt wasn't sure what to do. Hesitantly, he reached out and pulled her close. She hugged him fiercely, crying into his chest. "I know, honey. I know." He continued to hold her wishing he could take away her pain, help her to forget their tragedy. This had proven a brutally hard lesson on the realities of the horse world for Charlotte. He glared at the black colt that stood with his rump towards them, his head turned into the corner. It would be nearly impossible for any of them to forget with this living, breathing reminder in the barn.

Slowly, Charlotte's sobs subsided. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she swiped at her dripping nose with her sleeve. Her damp hair clung lankly to her cheeks and neck.

"That's better now. Come on, your mother will be wondering where we are."

"I want to stay here with Viking for a little while."

"No, Charlotte. I don't want you getting attached to this one."

"I just want to try to get him to eat. He hasn't touched his hay or grain, and I don't think he's been drinking."

"He's a little young to be weaned, but he should do well enough once he... accepts the way things are. All right," he tapped his daughter on the nose. "But don't stay down here all night. And be careful. That colt could have his mother's disposition."

"No, he doesn't! Look how weak he is, Dad."

Kurt didn't respond. How could he explain to his daughter that he wanted to get rid of this black colt as soon as possible? Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, a part of him wished the colt wouldn't recover. After all, he could never be the breeding stallion of whom they had all dreamed. Carpia's crime had doomed her son. The Danish Warmblood and Holsteiner breed associations were notorious sticklers for demanding the stallions they approved not only had good temperaments themselves, but also threw good temperaments in their offspring. Kurt couldn't imagine either breed association giving serious consideration for approval to a stallion with such a heritage. They wouldn't want to risk disseminating Carpia's temperament through their bloodlines. Kurt wished Viking could just disappear.

Chapter Six

Days went by then a week, and still the black colt refused to eat or to cooperate in any other way. Viking's ribs stood out and his once shiny coat was now dull and rough looking. Kurt had tried to turn him out with a sweet-tempered, old gelding, but the black colt, true to his lineage, had pinned back his ears, and attacked his babysitter. Chills raced down Kurt's back when he saw the look on the colt's face as he went after the other horse. Carpia had often worn that same expression.

The day came when Viking would no longer allow anyone to catch him. He stood listlessly in his stall, facing into the back corner, until anyone entered. Instead of going after the intruder, he just did his best to spin away. Kurt tried to slip the lead rope around his neck, but the colt was too fast. He avoided anyone who came into his stall, including Charlotte, who was heartbroken about the colt.

She brought him bran mashes, carrots, buckets of grass, but Viking would eat nothing. She spent hours in his stall trying to entice him, but he ignored her. Since the horse was growing weaker with each passing day, Kurt was no longer quite so concerned about his daughter's safety. But the entire situation was extremely difficult. The colt was obviously failing. Perhaps it would be kinder to the colt to let him go. He considered calling Dr. Olson to put him down, reasoning that watching Viking die slowly was not good for any of them. But he couldn't bring himself to end the colt's life.

One morning, as was her custom, Charlotte brought the colt his breakfast feed and a handful of sugar. She entered the stall, and found the black colt lying down on his side. Her breath caught and she nearly screamed. Was he dead? Then, she observed the regular rise and fall of his ribcage. He was alive. Just asleep.

Hearing her moving through the straw, Viking raised his head. Straw clung to his black ears and forelock. Groaning, he struggled gamely back to his feet. Charlotte shook the bucket of oats encouragingly. He turned away.

"Why are you doing this? You can't just give up! You're going to be a champion! Please, Viking, please."

With his rump to her, the black colt swished his tail.

Disconsolately, she shoved the bucket towards him, and sank down into the straw with her fists pressed to her face. She was trembling with frustration and pain. Long moments passed. Then, suddenly, she felt warm, velvety lips nuzzling the back of her hand. She opened her eyes, and found the colt standing right in front of her. He nudged at her, his ears cocked curiously forward. She opened her fist, and he breathed warmly on her palm. He delicately caught up a sugar cube with his lips, but contorted his mouth about, trying to accustom himself to the sweet taste and grainy texture. When he had swallowed it, he butted her gently with his head looking for more. She gave him another, then one more, and tossed the rest into his bucket of grain. He lowered his head into the bucket, ferreted out the sugar cubes and began nibbling at the oats. Charlotte sat watching him, her heart full.

* * * *

In the weeks that followed, the black colt made a remarkable recovery. His sides filled out, his black coat gleamed and the spark was back in his eye. Watching him in the pasture was enough to break Kurt's heart. Carpia's son was everything he'd hoped for. He was beautifully proportioned with a compact body, short back, long legs and a cresty neck that came out of his shoulder at just the right point. He had the start of a monstrously thick tail that he swished aggressively to express himself, and a wild mane that fell over both sides of his neck. His face wasn't refined, but neither was it common. It was masculine, with a wide breadth between his dark eyes, broken only by the tiny star. His muzzle was small, and his nostrils, delicate. He was agile and powerful. He was a horse breeder's dream, and Kurt's nightmare.

By the time Viking was six months old, it became apparent he'd inherited his mother's disposition. He showed no interest in other horses except to go after them, and he was immensely difficult for anyone to handle, except Charlotte. Kurt decided it was time to get rid of Viking.

One August day, Kurt braved Viking's teeth to groom him thoroughly and prepare him for shipping. He worked slowly and methodically, aware that this was the last time he would have to gaze upon his shattered dreams. He had already sold the colt to a German horse dealer. Dieter Munzman was to pick Viking up that same day.

Charlotte, who knew nothing of the transaction, was sleeping over at a friend's house. Kurt knew his daughter would feel betrayed once she learned what he'd done. But when Carpia was put down, it hadn't helped to discuss it with Charlotte first. He knew telling his daughter that he'd sold Viking was going to be very ugly, and he recognized that not telling her was cowardly. But he had no intention of dealing with this situation twice--once before it happened and then after the fact. And it was for the best. He repeated this mantra throughout the day. This colt could only cause them all more pain. There was no way Kurt was going to risk his daughter's or anyone else's safety by keeping a dangerous horse on the farm. His perception of the situation was clearer than Charlotte's. Selling the colt was in her best interests. In time, she would forget about Carpia's son.

Hours later, when Munzman's two-horse trailer pulled out of the driveway, Viking let out a ringing, challenging call. Kurt felt his shoulders sag and his stomach tighten in both relief and regret. It was done. But now he had to face his daughter.

On the following afternoon, as was her custom whenever she returned home after being away, Charlotte headed straight to the barn. Lena trailed after her. Charlotte spoke to several horses as she wandered down to the stall that had been Viking's. His door was ajar.

"Dad," she called to her father who was mixing grain in the feed room. "Where's Viking?"

Kurt didn't answer, exhaling slowly as he continued to work. He ached with the hurt that he was about to cause her. He stepped back into the aisle.

"Is he outside? I didn't see him out there when we pulled in. You didn't put him out with Fascinar, did you?" She continued to peer into stalls, and to adjust halters and lead ropes on stall doors.

"Charlotte, come here, honey."

"Is he in the round pen?"

"Charlotte, listen to me."

The grave quality to her father's voice caught her attention.

"What? What is it?"

"I sold him. I sold Viking. He's gone. He was picked up this afternoon."

"You did what?"

"I sold Viking. He's gone."

"You didn't..." Charlotte turned in shocked anguish to her mother. "Mom?"

Lena reached out for her daughter. "Yes. Your father and I did what we thought was best."

"How could you! That's not fair!" She stepped back from her mother, fending Lena away with her hands. "He was my friend! You've ruined everything! How could you do this! I love him!"

"Though it's hard for you to understand," Lena continued, "this horse venture of ours is a business. It was the right time to sell Viking. "

"You didn't have to! You chose to! You hated him!"

"Charlotte, he was dangerous," Kurt pleaded. "There's no doubt in my mind he'll get worse as he matures."

"He wasn't dangerous with me! You saw him! Mom, Dad, please." Charlotte sobbed openly. Her eyes were wild and desperate.

Lena met Kurt's gaze and nodded.

"Your mother and I have decided that because of the maturity you've displayed with the horses and how hard you've worked, it's time to get you one of your own."

"I don't want another horse! I want Viking!"

"Charlotte, Viking wasn't the horse for you. You are more important to us than any horse." Kurt consoled. "I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened."

"Can you call the buyers? Tell them you made a mistake?" Tears coursed unheeded down her cheeks. "Please Dad! Don't do this!"

"Charlotte, it's done. The money is in the bank. He's gone. That's all there is to it."

"I love him! How could you? You always hated him! Daddy, please... please." Her words dissolved into the heartrending sobs of the completely bereft.

Kurt took a step closer to his daughter. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. "There'll be other foals. Better ones."

"No!" She cut him off. Her face was wet with tears, her expression, devastated. He longed to hold her, to tell her everything would be okay. But she wouldn't believe him this time, not when he had let her down. "You don't understand! Viking loved me, too! And I didn't even get to say goodbye to him! I'll never forgive you for this! I hate you!" She turned and ran from the barn.

For a moment, Kurt and Lena stood silently, staring after their child. "That went terribly."

"Well, what did you expect?" Lena asked in some exasperation. "You just ripped her heart out. I knew it. Why didn't you listen to me? We should have told her last night."

"It was the right thing to do," he repeated hollowly.

"I'm not disputing that. But we should have warned her."

"It wouldn't have made any difference. She would have reacted the same way, and we would have argued all night long. At least this way, there's nothing to dispute. The horse is gone."

"I'm going to go talk to her. You should talk to her, too."

Kurt didn't respond.

"You're her father. She needs you now," Lena remonstrated. "You took the easy way out by not telling her before you did it. At least be man enough to be there for her now." With one final disgusted look, Lena also departed.

But Kurt was in no hurry to leave the barn. He wanted to give Charlotte time to work through her first waves of emotion. And Lena was with her. When their daughter was calmer and more reasonable, more willing to listen, he would go to her.

As he finished his chores, he evaluated his decision to sell Viking. It was for the best. The colt was dangerous. Charlotte was too young and too much of animal lover to understand. She would get over it eventually. He had made the best decision for all of them. Hadn't he?

No Horse Wanted

Shamrock Stables #1

by Shannon Kennedy

Chapter One

Wednesday, September 11th, 2:30 p.m.

_One more day_ , I thought, _one more day!_

Then, I'd be sixteen and nobody could tell me I was a kid. Not my parents or my older brother or my college freshman sister, who all thought it was their life mission to order me around, just because I was the youngest in the family. I'd get my driver's license, go wherever I wanted and no one would call me Princess Robin ever again.

Hello, freedom!

All I needed was a car. The one destined to be mine was a classic! A 1968 Mustang hardtop coupe. No convertible for me, not in Western Washington where it rained more than the sun shone. The brilliant blue paint on my dream car shimmered in the sunlight as I approached the Mustang Corral on the main drag in Podunk, USA—otherwise known as Marysville, Washington.

Why had Brenna moved my car out to the premier spot on State Street? Everybody who came into town could see it there and someone else might buy it before I convinced Dad to sign the papers. Brenna knew I wanted that gorgeous car. I'd told her often enough, and of course, I visited my Mustang every day on the way from school to my father's accounting office. I'd get it for my birthday. I knew it, heart and soul.

I'd talked her down from the list price on the car to fifteen thousand dollars, cash. All I had to do was get my father to agree to pay half, and he was almost there. Okay, so I was his baby and sometimes I played it to get what I really wanted. But, I was a good kid. I might not get the greatest grades in the world and I did bring home every stray animal I found, but I never did drugs, or drank booze or hung out with sleaze-balls. I deserved my Mustang. Once he came up with his share of the bucks, I'd use part of my college fund for my portion.

I'd be driving all over the place. My brother might be happy with the beat-up half-ton Dodge pickup he found on _Craig's List_ and my sister might swear there was nothing better than her 1991 four-wheel-drive Jeep. One of my dad's clients saw it parked beside a road up in the boonies with a For Sale sign taped to the cracked windshield. My sister still raved about the great deal she'd made.

They could really be satisfied with other people's cast-offs, but not me. Okay, so my Mustang was more than forty years old and it had been driven by someone else, but it didn't look like a used vehicle. The previous owners treated my car like the treasure it was. I circled around it, admiring the sheen of the Presidential blue color. Freshly washed and waxed, not a glimmer of dust marred the finish. When I got it home, Brenna's brother, Harry, wouldn't be around to keep my car in shape for me. I'd have to do it myself.

No problem. What could be better than washing and waxing my own car? Nothing! Nobody better even think about eating fast food in my car when I got it. That was so not happening!

I headed past the other ten Mustangs, candy-apple reds, canary yellows, a night black convertible, and emerald greens. A real rainbow herd, I thought. Brenna kept the rest of the cars on the sides and toward the back of the lot. I spotted Harry washing the puke green fixer-upper '67 model on the far side of the garage. No matter how hard he tried, that particular rig was destined to be what his older sister called the "loss leader." It needed a new tranny and a rebuild on the engine before anyone could drive it. And who would want to?

Looking at Harry Thornton made my day even better, even if he hadn't seen me yet. Sunshine blond hair curled to broad, tanned shoulders. He'd changed to a T-shirt and shorts to work here, but he still looked majorly hot. Of course, he didn't have a clue. He just thought all the girls wanted to sit at his table because I did.

I wasn't that popular even if I ran track and cross-country. I was blonde, brown-eyed, five-foot-six, and made friends easily. I liked people, well most of them, and they liked to hang out with me. And Harry was always willing to talk to me about cars, especially Mustangs, which had to be the best cars ever made by Ford.

Brenna waved to me from the steps at the front of the office trailer. "Hi, Robin. Come on over."

Shifting my backpack, I went to join her. "Hey, Brenna. What's up with my car?"

She smiled, then ran a hand through her shoulder-length red hair. The blue mechanic's coveralls she wore matched her eyes. "It's not yours until the papers are signed. And like I've told you all summer, your dad needs to do that, since you're not eighteen yet."

"He'll do it," I said. "Tomorrow's my birthday and he knows this car is all I want. I've been telling him that for ages."

Brenna nodded and her smile faded. She actually looked her age, almost thirty. "One of the guys I served with in Afghanistan took it out for a test drive today, Robin. I've been straight up with you. I won't hold a car for someone who can't buy it. This place eats almost as much as Harry does."

I knew she was trying to make a joke, but I could also tell that she was being honest with me. If somebody came in with enough bucks, my car would be gone. "Okay, I'll get my dad in here right away."

She nodded, then headed for the garage to do maintenance on a car she'd just taken in, and I jogged toward the sidewalk. The Mustang Corral wasn't that big as far as lots went. It was sandwiched between a vacuum repair place and a small strip mall. The only business left in the mall was a doughnut shop that was open from before school to midnight. I skipped my usual routine of popping in for a coffee and a maple bar. I had to talk to Dad and he had to get serious about the blue Mustang. Or else!

When I walked into the accounting office twenty minutes later, the secretary told me that my father was finishing up with a client. I had to wait almost an hour for him. Then, he rushed me out the door. He wanted to get to the feed store before it closed because his horse needed some kind of special supplement. Finally, we were on the way home and he was a captive audience. He couldn't get away from me.

"Dad, we have to talk about my birthday."

He glanced sideways at me while he waited for the red light to change at the intersection. "Robbie, we already have it planned. Felicia is coming home from school, and she'll be here tomorrow night to celebrate with us. She's taking Friday off from classes and driving back on Sunday morning."

"Wonderful," I said, hoping he didn't catch the sarcasm. "I can't wait to see her. I'm talking about my big present. I want—"

"I know what you want," Dad said, stepping on the gas. "But it doesn't mean you're going to get it. Presents are supposed to be surprises. You'll have to wait until tomorrow night at dinner to see what you get."

I nearly told him I didn't think waiting was a good idea, not when Brenna had a buyer for my car. However, my cell phone vibrated. When I looked at the screen, it was my best friend and I had to talk to her. Not about the car—she just didn't get why I was so hooked on Mustangs—but about her life, which pretty much sucked all of the time now.

* * * *

_Thursday, September 12_ th _, 4:00 p.m._

Leaving the department store sacks unopened and uninvestigated, I closed the door to the closet in my parents' bedroom. Snooping there had been a long shot, but I didn't know where else to look for the papers and keys to my Mustang. I just couldn't find anything to do with the car. Mom and Dad hid the information too well, although the '68 classic hadn't been on the lot when I walked by there today.

So, my car had to be here on the farm. I just hadn't found it yet. And I didn't have a lot of time left to look. Mom had to make a quick grocery store run to get Felicia's favorite junk food and Dad went with her. Hello, it was my birthday. Wasn't I supposed to be the special one today?

I'd searched most of the buildings; anywhere a person could drive a car. The only place left to look was the big barn where my family kept their horses. I figured my older brother Jack would totally freak if the car was in the indoor riding arena, not because the horses might trash it, but because they could spook and get hurt.

Horses were weird at the best of times and Jack fussed over the ones in the barn non-stop. He kept their stalls cleaner than Mom did the house. She often said she wished his obsessive neat and tidy fanaticism would carry over to his bedroom. It hadn't in nearly eighteen years, so I figured she should get over it. I started to leave my parents' room, then remembered that Salt escorted me upstairs.

I glanced around the master bedroom. The eight-week-old, black and white Persian kitten was nowhere in sight. I hurried back to the closet and opened the sliding door. Salt sauntered out and wound through my legs, purring. I scooped him up and closed the closet again, heading downstairs.

The house was hopeless. I'd searched my dad's office, my folks' room, and Mom's sewing room where she made quilts and other handmade crafts to sell. No sign of anything to do with my car. Where could the papers be?

Okay, I'd stop looking for those and go back to hunting for the car. I left Salt on the couch in the living room. He promptly jumped to the back and stalked to the cream drapes that covered the huge picture window. An extra black paw stole around the edge of one drape and batted at Salt. Pepper, the other kitten, was in his favorite hiding place on the windowsill. Leaving the kittens to shadowbox, I hurried out into the golden afternoon.

I was on a mission and I'd find my car, no matter what!

In the barn, I looked down the long row of stalls that bordered the indoor riding arena. The stalls opened onto a wide aisle. Off to my right, a wall separated the stalls from the ring, which was about two hundred feet long and seventy-five feet wide. Sometimes Jack and his buddies practiced football plays inside. There were eight stalls, although we only had three horses right now.

Felicia took her Appaloosa gelding with her to Washington State University in Pullman. She'd fussed more about finding the perfect stable to board him than she did about her stuff for the dorm room. I'd done most of the shopping so the place would be livable, or she'd have a sleeping bag on her bed and her clothes in suitcases since she wouldn't have any hangers for the closet. Of course, as long as her horse was happy, she wouldn't have cared. The whole family loved the indoor arena, except me. I'd voted for a swimming pool—not that anyone listened.

The first box stall held Jack's huge, white Thoroughbred, Nitroglycerin. I shuddered and gave him a wide berth when he pinned his ears and gave me that wicked once-over from pale blue eyes. Jack told me that people used to think blue or glass-eyed horses were blind. I wasn't that dumb. I just knew Nitro was evil. I'd been sure of it even before he ran away with me the last time Mom insisted I come riding with her and Felicia.

Next to Nitro was my mother's purebred Arabian mare. She was tiny in comparison to Nitro, fifteen hands to his eighteen. _Ibn Scheherazade_ was a dainty chestnut with a long flaxen mane and tail. She answered to Singer at home because she pranced and danced across the finish line at hard endurance contests, just like Mom's sewing machine stitched material.

Singer's head came up, and she listened intently to the soft thuds overhead in the hayloft. I recognized the thumping of little cat feet. Obviously, the two half-grown kittens, Ginger and Cinnamon, were playing tag again. When I found Salt and Pepper abandoned near the train tracks in Marysville, Mom told me that two kittens in the house were enough and my older cats had to go to the barn because the newest ones needed to be bottle-fed every couple hours. Luckily, it was August so I could get up all night long to do it and not have to worry about school the next day.

Singer snorted and jumped to the back of her stall as the noise continued in the loft. She looked like a horse statue come to life, but she wasn't as smart as Mom claimed. Dad's Quarter horse, Buster, took up the third stall. He searched his manger for any crumbs left from lunch. I always found it hard to believe that this was the same horse that exploded into the arena when it was time to rope a calf since he was such a hog-body at home.

Jack came out of the tack room, all cowboyed up in his jeans, western shirt, and boots. "Thought I heard someone. What's going on, Robin?"

"Not much," I said, eyeing him. Would he tell me where to find my car?

He grinned at me, a tall, dark-haired, younger version of Dad. "So, are you here to help me with chores, Princess?"

I shrugged. "Sure. Why not? I'll do the cats, the chickens, and the rest. You do the horses."

"All right!" He pumped an arm in the air. "It won't do you any good. I'm still not telling you about your big present."

I'd been charming secrets out of him for years, and he always lost this kind of battle. I just smiled up at him. "Want to bet?"

Chapter Two

Thursday, September 12th, 6:20 p.m.

When we finished chores and climbed the stairs to the inside back porch that my mom called the "mud room," I kicked off my shoes while Jack pulled off his boots. It wasn't worth our teenage lives to track barn muck into the house. I looked through the glass window of the door and saw Felicia setting the kitchen table for dinner. Mom stirred something at the stove.

I could already hear Felicia chattering about some class she was taking and what she'd told her teacher and he'd told her. Like anybody cared, I thought. Of course, I wouldn't say so. My older sister honestly believed we couldn't live without the psycho-babble she loved so much.

As soon as I opened the door, she darted across the room to hug me. _Oh, come on!_

The two of us had a huge fight about her hogging the bathroom and using up my tube of mascara the day she left and now we were supposed to be best buds. _Give me a break!_

"I've missed you guys so much." Felicia whirled away from me and flung herself on Jack. He scooped her up in a big hug.

"How's Vinnie?" Jack demanded. "Does he like the barn? His paddock? Did you find somewhere to buy him organic carrots?"

"I knew it," Felicia crowed. "You miss him more than you do me. You're weird, all right."

"Great diagnosis," I said. "Is that what you're going to tell all your patients when you're a shrink?"

"Only the strange ones," Felicia said, with a toss of her strawberry blonde hair.

"Good to know." I headed for the bathroom to wash up.

Dinner was on the table at six thirty exactly, one of my dad's rules. He freaked when one of my track or cross-country meets ran overtime or started late so we had to eat at a different time. Mom claimed his hang-up about appointments was just a personality flaw and nothing to get in a dither about. Of course, she was the one who said no animals, no TV, no iPods, or cell phones at the table. We had to talk to each other like civilized people, or she'd make us wish we had. I lived with two total control freaks for parents and Felicia and Jack were pretty much the same way.

Mom made all my favorites for supper, spaghetti with meat sauce, Caesar salad, and garlic bread. I didn't have to ask about dessert. She'd have ordered in a cake from the local bakery, chocolate with custard filling, and there'd be chocolate ice cream in the freezer. A pile of brightly wrapped presents covered the top of the breakfast bar.

When I'd looked out in the drive before dinner, I didn't see my car anywhere, but it had to be somewhere. Either that or Mom and Dad arranged for me to go with them to pick it up later. It was all I could do to sit still while Felicia talked about her freshman year at college and Jack shared what happened at football practice that afternoon. Mom told us about a sale at the local crafts store and how she'd loaded up on material for a new quilt. Dad had two new clients, so he was all that, too! Could these people eat any slower?

Finally, they finished and I jumped up to clear away the dishes. Mom put away the leftovers. Jack and Dad arranged my gifts on the table, and Felicia hurried off to her room to bring back a couple more. I had a great family, really I did. And I should be more appreciative of them. My best friend's dad had walked out on her birthday last June—some gift. Mine would never do that, not in a million years.

"Leave the dishes for me, Robbie," Dad said. "Come open your presents."

"You don't have to tell me twice." I hustled to the kitchen table, pausing to hug him on the way. "There's nearly as much stuff here as I get for Christmas. You guys rock!"

Laughing, Mom and Felicia leaned against each other at the far end of the table, looking more like sisters than mother and daughter. They both had bright blue eyes, strawberry-blonde hair and wore the same kind of cowgirl clothes, jeans, western shirts, and Ropers. Little wonder that my sister went off to cow college in Pullman. She'd probably bring home some farmer guy for a new boyfriend.

She'd dumped her last one when he suggested she sell Vinnie to pay tuition. Nobody came between her and that purebred, seventeen-hand, buckskin Appaloosa. She'd gotten him for her sixteenth birthday. Well, actually Mom couldn't find 'the perfect horse' for her. So, Mom cut a picture out of a horse magazine, stuck it on a toothpick, and put it in the middle of Felicia's cake.

The two of them shopped for the next month, visiting horse sales, breeders, and shows, rodeos until they found Vinnie and brought him home. My parents did the same thing when Jack turned sixteen, a picture on a toothpick in the middle of his cake. He and Dad bonded on the quest to find Nitro. Personally, I could think of better places to spend money, like the outlet mall over on the reservation by Marysville.

I reached for the large pink envelope on top of the boxes of presents. This one could be the papers for my car. It had to be. I peeled back the flap. It was the spine of a greeting card. Okay, the card could have the car title inside. But, it didn't.

Hand-painted, the front showed a rainbow group of horses, a buckskin Appy, a solid bay, a snow-white one, and a chestnut dashing across a green field. I recognized all of them, Vinnie, Buster, Nitro, and Singer. Behind them, looking down from the clouds was a shadowy pony, a faded strawberry roan. Tears stung at the memory of my first horse, but I didn't let them fall. "This is amazing, Jack."

"I knew you'd love it." He grinned at me. "I've been working on it for the past month."

"It's definitely a keeper." I'd add it to the bulletin board in my room. Even if I didn't much care for horses, I loved my brother's artwork. Jack's poem inside wished me a happy day and sixteenth year, but it wasn't sappy. And the fifty dollar bill—oh yeah, I could go places with it.

I'm not a real touchy-feely person like Felicia, but I hugged Jack, anyway. "This is the best."

Another grin. "And you're just getting started."

My car, my car, my car!

Where was it? When would I find out about it?

I opened one present after another. Dad gave me raingear. What was he thinking? Even when I ran in the rain, I didn't wear heavy vinyl. I'd die of heat prostration. From Mom, I got a new blue jean jacket, two flannel shirts, and three pairs of jeans. _Come on, give me a break_. Okay, so I lived on a farm. It didn't mean that it was my thing and I'd dress like Ellie Mae off the _Beverly Hillbillies_. Of course, nobody listened when I suggested moving into town, a real one, not Marysville.

Next box. This one was from my mom and my sister. I peeled back the paper and found a carton labeled _Ropers_. No way! They hadn't bought me boots like theirs, had they? Yes, icky big brown lace-up ones. I hoped my disgust didn't show. These looked like I'd be in the Army before I graduated. Well, they were expensive. I'd get the receipt from Mom and return them for something I would actually wear.

Two gifts remained. The first was a package of horse books, and I almost groaned. What would it take to get them off my back? I didn't do horses, and I definitely didn't read about them. However, the entire family was so hooked on them they just couldn't let things go. Last summer, I barely got to hang out with my best friend until she agreed to go to horse camp with me. Vicky loved horses, so she had a blast while it was a real endurance contest for me. Well, I'd pass the books onto her. She'd savor every page.

My parents had a thing about me being home alone when they went to work—talk about control freaks. I'd been fifteen, not a baby. And I'd have been okay by myself for a few hours while Felicia was at the counseling center learning what therapists do and Jack did his lifeguard thing at the pool. Instead, I wound up grooming, saddling and feeding horses, and taking little kids back and forth to the restroom. I told Rocky, the instructor and owner of Shamrock Stables, that she should change the name. It shouldn't be called "Pony Camp," but "Pee-Pee Camp." She laughed her butt off and gave me a coffee card for being a good sport.

With the way I avoided Mom's endurance rides, Dad's calf roping, Jack's gaming and Felicia's three-day eventing, I'd thought they'd get the message that I wasn't into horses. But, no. One of them was always hassling me. _Come ride with me on the Centennial Trail. Buster needs to muscle up. I made an apple crisp for dessert tonight. Come visit the horses with me while I feed them these apple peels. Vinnie needs braids for this weekend. Come talk to me while I sew his mane_.

Nag, nag, nag. I was so sick of it!

The last gift came from Jack and Dad. I opened it up and stared at the leather bridle and green striped saddle blanket. My stomach knotted. "What is this? A mistake?"

"It's a family tradition," Felicia crowed and ran around to hug me. "I thought you'd figured it out when I came home to go with you and Mom."

"Figured out what?" A sinking dread swept over me. "You guys can't be serious."

"And when you came down to help in the barn tonight," Jack gave me a brotherly shove, "I knew that you'd see the stall I fixed up or the remodeling in the tack room."

I hadn't even bothered to look around the barn this afternoon. Jack was always messing around. Who knew or cared what was going on down there? Well, other than the rest of my family that is!

Sobs clogged my throat as Mom stood and headed for the bakery box on the kitchen counter. "I don't believe you people."

Dad chuckled. "What did you expect, Robin? It's a family tradition. You get to choose a purebred horse for your sixteenth birthday."

"But I don't want a stinky, smelly horse!" I jumped up, letting the bridle and blanket fall to the floor. "Don't you ever listen? I showed you the Mustang again and again. I want a car. My car, so I can go places!"

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. I swiped it away and ran out the back door. Crying in front of them. No way! Not after this! They'd ruined everything. I grabbed my shoes and raced across the porch. I was so outta there.

My car, my car, my car!

Chapter Three

_Thursday, September 12_ th _, 8:00 p.m._

I paused halfway across the lawn to pull on my shoes. Then, I cut across the driveway and ran beside it to the road. Back in middle school when I started cross-country, I'd mapped out a six mile route so I could practice at home. After running it for almost five years, it seemed automatic to take it now. I didn't have to think about where I was going, just head south on Whisky Ridge until I reached the trail through the woods.

Wasn't the fact that not one person in my family understood me bad enough? Did they have to destroy my birthday too? And it wasn't like my birthday was supposed to be unlucky. It wasn't Friday, the 13th. It should have been a good day. I barely complained when they expanded the barn so the horses had more room and added a shower stall so Felicia could bathe Vinnie on a regular basis. Well, not much—I still thought a swimming pool would be more fun.

Tears clogged my throat, and I ran faster. Dust puffed around my shoes from the path. Some green leaves still clung to vine maple branches. I wound through a grove of young alders, passed two cedars and came to the crosswalk on Highway 9. I jogged in place while I waited for the light to change. I was mad, but not stupid enough to dart between cars and semi-trucks that used the old main road between Seattle and the Canadian border.

Maybe I was adopted. That would explain why I didn't look or feel like anyone in my family. Where had all these horse-nuts come from? Why couldn't I have normal relatives? Mine would probably sell me before they parted with one of those four-legged wonders down in the stable. Green light and I was across the highway, heading for the Centennial Trail where I did most of my running. I always ran the dirt track, which meant I had to watch out for horse poop, but it was easier than avoiding the bike riders and dog walkers.

When I got home a little over an hour later, Mom and Dad waited in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Felicia and Jack were nowhere in sight. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and chugged half of it.

"Robbie, we need to talk," Dad said.

"Why?" I knew I sounded like a snarky teenager, but I didn't care. "You never listen to me. What's the point?"

Mom heaved a dramatic sigh. "I thought you'd be over your snit when you got back. Come sit down and we'll tell you what we've planned."

"How joyful." That got me a stern look from her. I stomped over to join them, slumping into a chair. "What?"

Another of Mom's fierce blue-eyed glares before she planted her elbows on the table and gave me a steely once-over. "Your dad and I talked. He should have told you flat-out that the Mustang wasn't an option. You can't have a car until your eighteenth birthday, and the way it works in this family is you pay half of the cost."

I took a deep breath. "I told Dad I could do that. I'll borrow it from my college fund."

He immediately shook his head. "No, Robbie. It costs a small fortune for college, and we don't touch that money except for life and death. Believe me, a classic car doesn't count."

"It does to me." I rolled the water bottle in my hands. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I want it."

"Then, get a job and start saving up," Mom said. "We're not saying you can't have it, Roberta Lynn. We're saying that you have to do what your brother and sister did. You have to earn the money for the car to prove you're responsible enough to have it."

"But, mine will be gone. Brenna won't keep it two years for me."

"Then it isn't meant to be," Mom said. "There are other Mustangs."

"What?" I almost felt my jaw hit the table. "I don't want a different one. I want this one. Come look at it again. You'll see how gorgeous it is."

Mom rolled her eyes and shook her head. "The answer is no, Roberta. You are not getting a car. This weekend, you and Felicia and I are going out shopping. We're finding you a horse."

"I hate horses. They're big, ugly and they stink, and they're way too much work."

Dad got up. He came around the table and put a hand on my shoulder. "Now, Robbie, you know you don't mean that. It's not as if you really hate horses. You used to ride Cobbie all over the place, and you took care of him yourself."

I jerked away. "Cobbie wasn't a horse. He was part Welsh Cob and part Welsh pony. He is dead. He's been dead since I was twelve. And going out to find another stinky, smelly horse won't bring Cobbie back. He'll still be dead."

"And we'll all still miss him," Mom said softly. "He was my first horse, Roberta. I loved him, too. Just because I have Singer now, doesn't mean I love Cobbie any less. We choose to love creatures that have shorter life spans than we do, and we grieve them when they're gone."

"Not me." I leaped to my feet, knocking the chair over again. "I won't love another horse. Not ever. You can't make me."

I bolted from the kitchen and ran upstairs. I slammed into my room. They'd wrecked my birthday, and I wasn't letting them get away with it. Mom might force me to go with them on Saturday, but I wouldn't let her get me a horse. I wouldn't. I wouldn't. I wouldn't!

* * * *

_Friday, September 13_ th _, 7:15 a.m._

I sat in the school cafeteria waiting for Vicky, stirring my mocha with the straw. On the way to Marysville, Dad had tried talking to me about the stupid horse again, but I pretty much ignored him until he bought me a coffee at the espresso stand. Then, it was Jack's turn. I tuned him out and texted my best friend, begging her to meet me. I didn't know if she'd make it or not. Like she said, since her parents' divorce, her mom got the house and a new job. Her dad got the new car and a girlfriend. And Vick got to take care of her two younger brothers and three younger sisters.

Ten minutes before the bell rang, she hustled across the Commons to join me. "Okay, I'm here. What's the disaster?"

"I didn't get my car," I said.

She plunked her backpack on the extra chair and sat down next to me. "Did you really think your folks would cough up fifteen thousand dollars for a Mustang? That's major bucks."

"They're buying me a horse instead—a four-legged hay-burner."

"A horse? A real horse?" Vicky squealed and jumped up to hug me. "You are so lucky. I'd die for a horse. I'd kill for one. When can I come see it? What are you going to call it? Can I ride it?"

"You can have it," I snapped. "You can freaking move in with my family and have it!"

"Oh, get over yourself," Vicky retorted. "You're the lucky one, Rob, even if you won't admit it. You could be sharing a room with my sister, babysitting all the time and changing diapers when you're trying to do algebra. There'd be no cell phone or your own TV or clothes from the mall whenever you want. I wish my biggest problem was getting a horse for my birthday instead of my parents' divorce."

The bell rang before I had to say that she was right. I did have things better than she did, but I still didn't want a horse. I wanted my car, my amazing Presidential blue '68 Mustang with its automatic transmission.

"So, what are you going to do?" Vicky asked, walking beside me toward Homeroom English. "When does your horse arrive?"

"I have to go shopping with my mom and Felicia on Saturday," I said. "And if they actually make me get a horse, I'm bringing home the worst one I find."

* * * *

_Saturday, September 14_ th _, 2:45 p.m._

We spent the day touring stables and checking out the horses they had for sale. This plan had obviously been in the works for a while. Jack had hitched up the horse trailer to his pickup so we could bring home the horse when we found it. Mom and Felicia had chosen six horses for me to look at. If Shamrock Stable, the place where I did day camp during the summer, had been on the list, it might have been different, but my family obviously hadn't considered the beginning level, safe horses suitable.

Two of the horses they chose had already been sold. Hurrah. The other four were experienced gaming mounts, so not my thing. I watched the owner gallop a paint around the barrels and shook my head. "No way."

"Don't you want to try him?" Felicia asked. "Jack said that he's a sweetheart."

"He's too fast," I said. "I don't ride fast horses anymore, and you two can't make me."

Mom frowned at me. "If you just developed some confidence, you could be a very good rider, Robin. You have a good seat and good hands. There is no reason for you to refuse to ride when you're obviously very talented. That would be like Felicia refusing to play the piano or your brother throwing away his paints because his work hasn't been in a gallery."

"I don't want a horse, and I'm not getting on one ever again."

That got me twin glares, but luckily we were soon in the truck and headed off to a nearby café for a late lunch. Felicia pulled out her cell phone. I thought she was texting a friend, but it turned out she was checking the classified ads in the local paper. "Hey, Mom. I think I found one."

"Really? Let me see." Mom drew into a parking lot and reached for the phone. "This does sound interesting. It's a trained, registered Morab gelding. Why do they only want $100.00?"

"I'll call and find out," Felicia said.

"Don't," I said. "Let's quit wasting time on this. That price is definitely a mistake."

The two of them ignored me. What else was new?

Mom called the number and talked to somebody. In minutes, we were on the way north to Arlington. I stared out the truck window at the evergreens and alders that marched alongside the highway. Sunshine danced off the glass.

"There it is." Felicia pointed to the next side street.

Mom slowed down for the turn. She went to the third driveway on the left, parking next to another truck, between the house and a large row of kennels.

I looked around. I didn't see a barn or even a shed. "Where is this cheap horse?"

"I don't know," Mom said. "We'll have to ask the owner. She told me someone else was coming to look at it."

"Good. Maybe they'll buy it." I saw a shape in the dusty corral behind the house. Was that a horse? I opened the passenger door of the pickup and slid out. Felicia followed me. I headed for the corral and stopped when I heard a growl. Did they have a dog? I didn't see one. When I scanned the caged runs, I spotted a giant cat. "What is that?"

"A cougar," Felicia said.

We shared a look. What kind of nutcase would have a wild animal like that?

"Lovely," Mom said. "It's lucky we left Jack home. He'd want us to take it, too." Sighing, she shook her head. "I'll go find the owner."

"Okay," I said. "We'll hunt for the horse."

Mom walked away, and we headed off to the corral. My breath caught. Felicia grabbed my arm, nails digging into my skin.

I just stared at the skeleton pretending to be a horse. Red brown hide stretched over the bones, and I counted every rib. He was male, but I didn't know if he was a stud or gelding. I hadn't gotten close enough to see. Hips protruded, sunken sides, and he was absolutely filthy. Dirt covered his legs, up past his knees and hocks. Chunks of hair had fallen out of his mane. Maybe he'd rubbed them out. Half his tail was missing too. When he shifted, I saw yellow patches on his neck, side and one on his rump. So, he must have some paint blood too. Why else would he be a pinto?

"Let's go, Robin." Felicia pulled on my arm. "It's hopeless. He's hopeless."

I almost went with her. Then, the horse lifted his head and looked at me. And I stopped. "No. He's the one."

"What?" Felicia hissed. "I don't believe you."

"Well, you should," I said. "He's the worst horse I've ever seen, and I'm taking him home."

Chapter Four

_Saturday, September 14_ th _, 4:15 p.m._

Felicia gave me one of her older sister dirty looks that she'd practiced over the years. It meant I was being a spoiled brat, but I didn't care. I kept most of my attention on the horse. He flicked his ears and cocked his head my way, flashing a white blaze, but his big brown eyes nailed me. And there was no way I'd leave him here to die of starvation. I turned and scuffed through the dust to the back porch. I carefully climbed the rickety steps and knocked on the door.

I'd concentrate on making him look good, like a horse again, not a skeleton. Later, I'd find him a good home and sell him. And nobody said I actually had to ride him in the meantime. He could just hang out in the barn with the rest of the hay-burners. Once I sold him, I would put the money toward my car. _My car, my car, my beautiful car_ —well, if I got Brenna a down-payment, she'd save it for me. I knew she would. In this down economy, she'd take installments if that was the best I could do.

I pushed open the back door and saw my mother sitting at a kitchen table talking to a scrawny, older woman wearing the worst wig I'd ever seen. "Mom, I've found him. I found my horse."

"He's not yours yet," Mom said. "Mrs. Bartlett tells me there's another buyer coming to see him."

"Who else would want him, but me?" I asked. "He's a wreck. Of course, once he's all the way dead, a vet student might take him to study the bones."

"Roberta Lynn, that's enough. Stop being rude. You have better manners. Use them."

I folded my arms and waited. The door opened behind me, and I saw Felicia standing there. "What?"

"A old fat guy just got here with the worst trailer in creation. And he's feeding your want-a-be horse grain. It's gross."

"What's gross about it?" I asked. "At least someone cares enough to feed him."

"He's scarfing it so fast he almost chokes on each mouthful. Every time he spills some on the ground, he eats the dirt and the grain. He's going to colic."

"I don't suppose anyone cares if he dies of that either." I brushed past my sister and returned to the corral. Sure enough, she was right. A guy older than my dad stood with a bucket of feed. "What are you doing?" I asked. "He's not yours yet."

"He will be."

I nodded. "Well, you're feeding him. That's something. He won't be hungry or abused."

"Nope. My partner and I will put some weight on him and run him up to Stanwood. They'll ship him to the slaughter house in Canada."

"You can't!" I watched the horse nudge the guy for more feed like the two of them were best buddies. "He likes you. Come on. All he needs is a stall and regular meals for a while."

"And six months to a year's rest before he could be trained or ridden." The man shook his head. "Nope, he's history even if he's too dumb to know it."

"Then, why waste grain on him?" Mom asked, as she joined us, Mrs. Bartlett limping along behind. "Or are you just trying to win his confidence to make him easy to load?"

That earned a snort of laughter. "Lady, this grain is heavily salted. In a couple hours, he'll be ready to tank up on water. By the time I run him to Stanwood next week, he'll be more than a hundred pounds heavier."

"And since they'll pay by the pound for him, you'll make more money." Mom put an arm around my shoulders. "Sometimes you need to know when to walk away, Robin. This could be one of those times."

"Or not." Felicia walked over to the fence and pushed down the bottom strand of barbed wire with her boot. She lifted the second line and climbed into the pasture. Murmuring reassurances, she walked up next to the horse. "I want to see his teeth."

"I've looked at his papers," Mom said. "He is barely two and a purebred Morab. Half Morgan and half Arabian."

"And nobody's ever faked registration documents," Felicia said.

She sounded almost as snarky as I did when people irritated me. I saw Mom roll her eyes. Okay, so we were all channeling teenagers. What was it about this situation that brought out the immaturity in each of us?

Mrs. Bartlett leaned heavily on her cane. "Two people want Twaziem. That's amazing since I only put the ad in the paper for one day. Mr. Johnson, you've shared your plans for the colt. Young lady, what are yours?"

Her tone reminded me of my track coach's when my times sucked and I needed more practice to be considered for state competition. I straightened up to my full five-feet-six. "I'll put him in a stall, feed him up, and do everything our vet says he needs to look like a horse again. Once he's ready for training, I'll turn him over to Rocky at Shamrock Stables and she'll break him to ride."

Utter silence, which always made me nervous, so I added, "I don't know why they call it 'breaking' because I've never seen Rocky do anything mean to a horse or pony."

The comment led to a lecture from Felicia about the history of horse training, like anyone really cared. Blah, blah, blah. I could turn her on, and since she knew everything about everything, she never shut up. While she blathered, she looked in Twaziem's mouth, then felt around with her fingers.

"What are you doing now?" I cut her off mid-sentence. "He has teeth or he wouldn't be able to chew the horse-killer's grain."

Dirty looks all around. _Hey, I calls it as I sees it._ Most people figured I was charming because I was blonde. A girl has to use what she's got.

New lecture from Felicia. This one was about how horses had two sets of teeth in their lifetimes and how the permanent set came into the mouth in a certain order. Twaziem would get so many as a two-year-old, more as a four-year-old, some kind of hook when he turned five and he'd really groove at seven. Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, what? Who really cared?

I turned to Mrs. Bartlett. "So, who gets him? Me or the guy who thinks _The Godfather_ was a great movie?"

She eyed me, then looked at Mom. "Do you really want him?"

"I'll be honest with you," Mom said. "I prefer horses to the teen boys who chase my daughters and most of the girls who constantly call and text my son. This is the first horse we've seen all day that Robin has wanted. She's got a mean mouth and a crappy attitude, but she's the best person I've ever seen with a sick or needy critter."

"She brings home every stray in the world, and then she visits them when she finds places for them to live. None of them ever go to the pound or shelters." Felicia picked up Twaziem's left front foot, inspecting the hoof. "I was really surprised she hadn't found any more puppies or abandoned dogs when I got home from college."

"I probably will before too much longer," I said. "What are you looking for now?"

"Stone bruises, abscesses and chipped or cracked hooves." When she finished with the hooves, Felicia moved onto the horse's legs. He continued to ignore her, hassling the old guy for more grain. "Well, he doesn't have splints."

I dreaded the next lecture, but I really wanted to know. "What are those?"

Mr. Johnson answered before Felicia could. "They're bruises or swellings that become permanent growths on the cannon bones. And they'll limit what he can do."

My sister nodded agreement, but before she could add to what he said, Mr. Johnson hurried on, "I sympathize with your desire to save this horse, but it's not very economical."

"My husband's an accountant," Mom said. "He'd probably agree with you about the cost of saving him."

Felicia and I shared a look. Was she talking about our father—the guy who always quoted Sir Winston Churchill at us? "The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man..." Before either of us could say anything or argue with her, Mom gave us the evil eye and we shut down.

She turned on Mrs. Bartlett. "I'm sure you'll agree that the horse hasn't done anything to deserve death, and if he did, he'd have a more humane end if you just turned him in with your cougar."

I almost cheered, but I didn't. _Go, Mom!_

"You have a point." Mrs. Bartlett glanced past us to Mr. Johnson. "I appreciate you coming out, but Twaziem should have a chance for a happy life. And Robin will give him one."

"Got that right," I said. "Nobody will ever hurt him again. I swear it."

Chapter Five

_Saturday, September 14_ th _, 5:05 p.m._

Mom went off with Mrs. Bartlett to sort out the registration papers. Mr. Johnson handed me the can of grain. "You got yourself a horse, missy. Take good care of him. Don't water him for at least two hours."

That was a weird thing to say. I watched him leave, and then turned back to Twaziem. "What do you think?" I asked Felicia. "Should I give him the rest of this?"

"Sure. It can't hurt him, and he's already had enough that he has to stay away from water anyway."

"I don't get it. Why?"

"Colic, Robin. If he waters up, it'll flush the grain into his gut and cause an impaction. So, we'll feed him when we get him home, but we'll wait to fill his tub." She headed off to the truck and came back with the halter and lead I'd gotten for my birthday. "Okay, he's all yours. Get him ready to go."

She held the barbed wire strands apart so I could climb through them. I walked up next to Twaziem and slid the noseband of the halter over his face, buckling the headstall behind his ears. The whiskers on his nose tickled my hand when I offered more grain. He didn't care who fed him. He kept nuzzling me. Now, I was his best buddy.

Felicia walked away to meet Mom, and while she was gone, I told Twaziem about not particularly liking horses or really wanting one. "I want my car. Well, it's not mine yet, but it will be. I just have to start earning money for it. No offense, Twaz, but I stopped loving horses when Cobbie died. Even if I don't love you, I'll never let somebody kill you or starve you or abuse you. Deal?"

He nosed me for more food, and I figured we understood each other. I scooped out more grain. He wouldn't ask me for a lot of emotional stuff, and I wouldn't let anyone hurt him. He'd been hurt enough. He nickered softly and nudged my arm. I gave him the last of the grain from the coffee can and began talking about the Thunder Kittens, who lived in the hayloft and stomped around on the ceiling above the stalls.

"You just have to remember that to them it is the floor. They like to make noise. If you ignore them, you'll be fine. They love to annoy Singer because she always has conniptions." He didn't care about kittens or my talking. He pushed at me with his head. "There's no more grain, but we have a lot of hay in the trailer. Come on. Let's go find that instead." I led him over to the gate, unlatched it, and gave it a push away from me. The bottom hinge let go and the thing fell partway on the ground. Twaziem looked at it like the gate was some kind of performing clown. He snorted, but he didn't spook. He just stepped around it and followed me to the back of the horse trailer.

Loosening the rope so he could graze beside the driveway, I unlatched the door and opened it. I stepped up into the two-horse trailer and gave him a little tug. "Hey, you. Step up here." He did. He balked at the opening, but I pretended not to notice. I could reach the hay in the net and grabbed a handful. I held out the alfalfa to him. "Want it? Come here and get it."

He stretched out his neck and tried to reach the hay in my hand. When he couldn't quite get it, he hesitated. Slowly, he lifted one foot and cautiously placed his left front hoof up inside, on the trailer floor. He tried again. The hay was still too far out of his reach. He picked up his right front, put it beside his left. Okay, so now he was halfway in the rig. I held out the hay, and he got a taste. He wanted more and I wanted him to come the rest of the way so I backed up. With a sudden scramble of his hindquarters, he followed. I gave him the handful of hay. Crunch, munch, and it was gone. Then, he found the hay net and the rest was history. He started pulling out a mouthful and chewing. If a horse could look blissful, he did. I praised him, ducked under his neck, and tied him securely to the ring on the wall. He not only had the net of alfalfa grass hay, the manger was full too.

How far had Jack thought we'd have to go to find a horse? Canada? Petting Twaziem's neck one more time, I eased past him to the back door of the trailer. Mom waited for me, Felicia beside her with a file folder of papers. "What do you have?" I asked.

"A bill of sale," Felicia said. "I made sure that his poor condition was detailed. We don't want a hassle from the Animal Control people. And his papers are in order. You just have to send them to the registry to transfer him to your ownership. His registered name is actually _Twa Ziemlich Sonne_ , which is a bit strange. _Twa_ means 'two' in old Scots and _Zeimlich Sonne_ is 'pretty sun' in German, but normally you'd say..."

I tuned her out again and locked the trailer door. Hmm. I wanted to make money, but I didn't have to buy a lottery ticket. I could just sign her up for _Jeopardy_. She'd win thousands. Would she give me enough for my car? While she blathered about Twaz's name, I eyed Mom.

"Can we go now? Or do we have to stay forever? And do we have to take her? Maybe, they could feed her to the cougar."

"I don't think so." Mom patted my shoulder. "And I'm proud of her. When she and Mrs. Bartlett got to talking about cancer, Felicia provided some very good resources."

"Who has cancer?" I blinked and looked back at the trailer. I could hear Twaziem chewing away. "Is that why he didn't get fed? Was she in the hospital? Now, I feel really bad for getting on her case."

"That's kind of you," Mom said, "but she could have had someone check up on her grandkids and make sure they were feeding the horse."

"Well, who fed the cougar?" I asked. "And why?"

"He hasn't been here that long," Felicia said. "The animal rescue people brought him when he was injured in the woods. They fed the horse when they came to take care of the cat. It's the only reason Twaziem made it. And can you imagine what would have happened if they hadn't fed the cougar, and he got loose? He'd have gone hunting, and it might not have been your colt that wound up as dinner."

Those were all good points, but I didn't tell Ms. Knows-Everything. Her head was big enough. She didn't need me saying she was smart. She already knew it. In our family, Felicia was the brilliant one, Jack was the brave one, and I was the beautiful one. We all had our roles to play, and they didn't change.

We climbed in the pickup, and Mom started the engine. "I think we found the perfect horse for you to ride, Robin."

"Not until he turns three," Felicia said. "That's next April, a little more than seven months from now."

"Works for me. He has to be old enough and strong enough," I told them. And a lot could happen in that amount of time. By then, I'd convince my parents he was ready to move onto a new home. I'd get him the best one I could find. Maybe Rocky would help with that. She always had people looking for safe, sane mounts for her beginning riders and Twaziem might turn out to be perfect for them. All anyone had to do was feed him and he obviously thought the person was a friend.

It took over an hour for us to get home because of the traffic. Mom always drove carefully, and when she hauled a horse, she took more precautions. She signaled for turns early, slowed down before she braked, stayed five miles under the limit and pretty much ticked off every speed demon in forty miles. It didn't bug me as much as usual, not with Twaziem on board.

We pulled into our drive, and she tapped the horn. "Now your brother and dad will know we're home."

Suddenly, I was nervous. What if Jack made fun of my horse? Twaziem looked awful. And Dad? Would he be disappointed in me? He never complained when I brought home stray cats or their kittens or dogs and puppies. A starving horse was different. He was going to eat more than the other horses, and he'd need a lot more care.

Mom gave me a quick sideways glance before she focused on maneuvering up the driveway, past the house to the barn. "It'll be fine, honey. We know how you are when it comes to animals."

"You always pick the ones who need you most," Felicia said. "It's heroic even if you are obnoxious about it."

"So, sue me." I tossed my head. "They pick me too."

Mom laughed. "Either way, the result is the same. I always have a houseful of your critters. Bottom line, we're all human, Robin, and you could learn to be patient with the rest of us when we don't live up to your expectations."

"What's that mean?" I stared past Felicia at my mother. "What are you getting at?"

"I'm proud of you." Mom stopped in front of the barn. "It took a great deal of courage for you to stand up to your sister, me, and two other adults. You insisted we do what was right, not what was easy. Good job."

I felt warm all over. Mom rarely praised me, or anything I did. As the baby of the family, I came in third-best most of the time. No way I'd tell her that she'd made me feel good for once. Instead, I pushed open my door and slid out of the truck. I hurried around to the back of the trailer and opened the back end. Twaziem cocked his head around and looked at me, but kept eating. Despite the long driving time, he had plenty of hay left.

"Are you getting him out?" Felicia asked.

"I think he wants to finish the hay first," I said.

"He can finish it in the stall. I'll bring it in for him," Felicia told me. "Mom went to get Jack to put a bale of grass hay in the manger."

"You mean a couple of flakes, not a bale."

"No, she meant a bale, all right. She's not going to have him open it, but if Jack stands it on end, your horse can pull it apart and eat twenty-four seven."

"Where did she come up with that? It's a brilliant idea."

"Rocky suggested it when I called her from Mrs. Bartlett's."

"Why did you get to call her?" I glared at my sister. "I wanted to tell her about Twaz."

"You still can," Felicia said. "I wanted to settle Mrs. Bartlett's concerns about the training. She needed to be sure that Rocky understood Twaziem was a good horse so she wouldn't use whips or spurs on him."

"Is she going to be okay?" I asked, referring to Twaz's previous owner, not the stable owner.

"Well, she's in remission, but there aren't any guarantees. I got her email address so you can keep her posted on how Twaziem does. I think she'll do better now that she doesn't have to worry about him."

I eyed my sister. In jeans, a WSU sweatshirt and her never-removed Ropers, she didn't look much like an angel, but she was really kind to people, even the ones I thought were totally stupid. "Thanks, Felicia. I'll send her pictures every week. I'm glad you're on my side."

"Hey, I'm your big sister." She beamed a sunshine grin. "That's what I do."

Chapter Six

_Saturday, September 14_ th _, 6:45 p.m._

I eased my way into the trailer next to Twaziem's left side. There was a lot more room beside him than there was by the other horses that belonged to my family. When I reached the front, I untied the rope and tried to back Twaz out, but he didn't budge. He pinned his ears flat against his head and stomped one foot, then kept eating, pulling hay from the manger. I reached around and pushed on his chest. He ignored me.

"Come on, Twaziem. Mom promised a whole bale of hay in your stall."

He still wouldn't move. I pulled on the rope, but he pulled back, and he was a lot bigger than me. When I pushed on his chest again, he simply leaned further toward the hay and continued chewing.

Finally, I gave up. I petted him to show there weren't any hard feelings. If he didn't want to leave the food, it was okay. Sooner or later, he'd figure out that regular meals were part of his life now and starvation was over. I put the rope over his neck. Squishing past him, I went back out of the trailer.

Jack and one of his good buddies, Bill, had joined Mom and Felicia.

"So, where's your new steed?" Bill demanded. He was as tall as my brother, but he had auburn hair and eyes. "We loaded up his stall for him."

"He wants to finish the hay in the trailer," I said. "Then, he'll come out."

Jack laughed. "Robin, you've got to start out the way you mean to go on. You can't let your horse be the boss."

"Why not? Nitro is. You always say that he does all the work when you win at a gaming event and it's your fault when you lose. Twaziem will come out when he's ready."

"Did he tell you that?" Bill asked.

Ever since I was little, Bill liked to pick on me. I always wondered why he and Jack were friends when Bill was such a jerk and my brother wasn't.

"He didn't have to tell me," I said. "I could see that he's hungry. You'd need a big sign with pictures."

Jack laughed even harder and punched Bill in the arm. "She's got your number."

"Not yet." Bill rubbed his arm. "Do you want me to unload him for you?"

Mom and Felicia looked at each other. Then, Mom said, "I will. I think you guys are too rowdy for him." She stepped into the trailer, talking in a low voice so the horse wouldn't be frightened.

"I don't remember seeing a horse named Twaziem," Jack said. "What does he look like?"

"He's a bay paint with a blaze and three white ankle socks," Felicia said. "I found an ad for him in the paper since Robin didn't care for any of the ones that you and Mom selected."

"What was wrong with the ones I liked?" Jack asked me.

"They all went too fast," I said, "and nobody makes me ride a horse without brakes. Not anymore." I saw my dad and Vicky coming from the house and went to meet them. "I did get a horse."

Dad smiled at me. "Is it what you wanted?"

"Is it better than the car?" Vicky asked.

I took the questions in order. "I didn't particularly want _him_ , but he was being starved, and then a guy showed up who planned to take him to slaughter so I had to bring Twaziem home. A horse is alive. It has feelings, and Twaz didn't want to be dog food. To be honest, I'd still rather have my car. It'd be a lot more fun."

"I'm sure it would." Dad put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick hug. "Remember, it's like what Sir Winston Churchill said, 'We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.' And I'm proud of you for giving this horse a home. You don't have to worry about a car being butchered. Are you glad or sorry you saved him?"

"Glad, I guess. He needed me. I was the only one who really cared about him."

"You're the one who cared enough to save him," Dad said, and hugged me again. "Let's go see this wonder horse."

I nodded, grateful that he hadn't said a word about what it would cost to bring a horse back from the brink of starvation. I smiled at Vicky. "Wait till you see him. I think he has a lot of potential."

Vicky pushed a strand of walnut-brown hair from her face. "I can't believe you actually went through with it and got a horse after everything you said."

I stopped to think. She was right. I'd complained a lot about getting a horse instead of my beautiful car. Things had looked different when I watched Twaziem eat grain and dirt, then beg a guy who wanted to kill him for more food. "I did gripe a lot, but I was really mad."

"You sure were," Vicky agreed.

I contemplated telling her to shut up, but it wouldn't do any good. Vicky would keep talking until she wore out the topic. We arrived at the trailer, and she paused for breath. I counted my blessings. Mom had obviously succeeded in taking Twaziem away from the hay. He'd backed partway out of the trailer. His left hind foot hit the ground, then the right. Another step and he was half outside and half inside.

Jack stood rock still. Fury filled his face, and I saw his jaw clench when he spotted Twaziem's prominent hipbones. "You've got to be kidding me. Who did this? Why?"

I walked up beside Twaziem, and Mom passed me the rope from inside the trailer. I encouraged him to back a couple more steps until he was totally out of the trailer. "It wasn't his owner's fault. She was in the hospital for cancer treatments and her grandkids stopped feeding him."

"He's a walking skeleton," Bill said. "Didn't the cops do anything?"

"I did something." I petted Twaziem's neck, calming him when he stamped a hoof. "I brought him home. Now, quit acting macho. He doesn't like it."

"I know you said you were getting the worst horse you could find, Robin, but this one is beyond it," Vicky told me. "He's awful."

A dreadful silence descended on everyone after Vicky's comment, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me, and Twaz. Of course, it didn't. I'd have to save both of us. Why, oh, why, did Vicky choose now to repeat my childish promise? I glanced at Felicia. If she'd ratted me out, I'd have expected it. We'd sniped at each other a lot over the years, but we were sisters and we fought. Vicky was my best friend. She was supposed to stick up for me.

For once, my parents had been proud of me. For once, I hadn't been a washed out copy of Felicia or less than perfect Jack. For once, I'd been part of the family, not an outsider! I knew it wouldn't last. It never did, but I could hope, couldn't I?

"I said it," I admitted, "but I was really ticked off when I didn't get my car and..."

Support came from a surprising corner. Mom sighed as she stepped out of the trailer, shaking her head. "And here I figured Felicia and I were the only ones who vented first and thought later. We'll have to be a lot more careful, Robin. It's amazing how 'boot in mouth' comes back to haunt a person."

"And Grandma always says to keep 'your words short and sweet, since you never know which ones you have to eat.' Smart advice, huh?" Jack was next to Vicky, holding her hand, like she needed his support too.

I forced myself to look past them to Felicia and my dad. She winked at me and he grinned. Tears stung my eyes. The last thing I'd expected was for them to understand why I'd been so mean about my birthday and the present they wanted to give me, the traditional present that Felicia and Jack got when they turned sixteen.

Slowly, I realized the truth. My family was sticking up for me because Vicky and Bill were here. Nobody mentioned Jack's art or poetry when the football guys were around. We didn't talk about Felicia's love for classical music when her rock band wanted to practice in the garage. Of course, they all were mad at me. They just wouldn't tell me how disappointed and angry they were when we had an audience.

I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat, unable to speak.

Jack let go of Vicky and came up close to my horse, shaking his head. "A lousy bay and he's not setting one hoof in my barn."

"Don't be mean about Twaz," I said. "And if I can put up with Nitro, you can deal with me having a horse."

"I said 'lousy' and I meant it." Jack pointed to Twaziem's right side. "Watch that patch. It's moving. I wouldn't be surprised if he's not a paint. It's not a usual coloration for Morabs. Breeders try real hard for it."

I stepped around to the other side and looked at the spot, a huge yellow stain on Twaziem's barrel. It moved. The whole thing crawled toward his neck and face. And I'd been petting him. My stomach lurched. "Oh, my Gawd!"

"Gross," Bill said, but he sounded awestruck and horrified at the same time. "I so have to video this and put it online. Let me get my phone."

"Don't even think about it," Mom told him. "I'm not having Animal Control out here beating on the door when your video goes viral."

"I can't believe I didn't see that," Felicia said, moving closer to inspect Twaz. "I assumed he was a paint and needed a good grooming or a bath for his patches to be white and the proper color."

"Maybe you should send him to be dog food," Vicky said. "It's not that far to Stanwood, only twenty some miles."

"We're not going there and neither is he," Jack said. "The cows, pigs, and chickens get lice, and we treat for them twice a year. It's a normal part of farm life. We'll just dust him before he goes into the barn."

"Makes sense." Dad came and took the lead from me, ignoring Twaziem's snort, and issuing orders. "Jack, get the powder out of the vet cabinet. Robin, you ladies are headed for the showers. I'll send the halter to be disinfected as soon as we take it off him. Bill, pull the truck around to the other side of the house and start fumigating the trailer."

"Come on, girls," Mom said. "We'll leave the messy business to the menfolk. I'm so up for that."

"I really don't see the necessity." Felicia took on her know-it-all persona, with its irritating, authoritative tone. "Horses normally have a 101.5 degree temperature and healthy humans are at 98.7 degrees, so the likelihood that Twaziem's lice migrated to us is extremely rare—"

"Except that he's debilitated," Dad said. "I'm not taking his temperature now. I'm just treating the symptoms, and you don't want me throwing you into the utility shower, clothes, and all, Felicia Joyce. Move it. And wash your hair too!"

Vicky wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I'll help with the horse trailer. I'm not hanging out while you shower, Robin."

"You don't have to help," I said. "You can watch TV in my room if you want or use my computer to cruise the Internet."

"Later," Vicky told me with a toss of her hair. "It may be yucky around here, but it's a lot better than my sister's diapers. Hey, can we order in pizzas?"

I had to laugh. Only my best friend could jump from lice to junk food in less than a heartbeat. "Sure. You're the greatest, Vick."

I got a funny look from her and another from my sister who waited to walk with me toward the house. "What?"

"She's acting like such a twit," Felicia whispered. "And you're actually being pretty nice to her. What's up?"

"Same old, same old," I said, with a shrug. "Vicky's still picking up all the slack around the house since her parents' divorce. And this is the only place where she's allowed to be a kid and complain. But, if she stays on my case, I will nail her. You don't get to. She's been my best friend forever."

The Penny Pony

The Horse Rescuers #1

by Shannon Kennedy

Chapter One

~ We Find Rosie ~

The trouble started on a hot afternoon the week after I turned fifteen. I was doing surgery in my bedroom, trying to glue or tape the leg back on an old Breyer horse, when I heard a rock hit the screen on my window. I looked out and saw my best friend, Addie Davis, getting ready to throw another one.

"Hey!" I yelled out the window. "Stop! You're going to break something."

"Hi, Piper," she said. "You still sick? I haven't seen you since your birthday party when you started throwing up. You don't answer your phone."

"I'm okay now, but I broke my phone. Mom says I have to buy the new one with my own money," I said. "What's up?"

"I want to show you something. Come out."

"Just a minute," I said. My mother was mad at me. Would she let me go? I decided that yes, she would let me go out. Since I almost always guessed wrong about things like this, I tiptoed down the hall and out the back door to be sure she didn't have a chance to mind. My mother had been very unreasonable lately. I had her straight brown hair and skinny body, but not her temper.

Motioning for Addie to be quiet, I led her through the trees at the edge of our yard and into a small cluster of lilac bushes owned by our neighbors. When they bloomed, they had the best smell in the world, but they were done now and it was hot summer. Out of sight of my house, I turned to her.

"Are you in trouble?" Addie asked. Stupid question. I was usually in trouble.

"Not really," I said. "I think I should lay low for a while."

"You are, too, in trouble," said Addie. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," I said. "Okay, I broke some good plates, but I didn't mean to. I was trying to juggle them. What did you want to show me?"

"It's over by the drugstore." Addie started walking toward Main Street. Serendipity Springs, Kentucky, was a very small town. The good thing about small towns: everyone knew you, so you could walk anywhere. People said "Hi," and might give you treats. The bad thing about small towns: Everyone knew you; they kept an eye on what you were doing and asked about your parents. See, I was getting used to Mom and Dad being divorced, but I wished everyone else would get over it and quit asking me about it. I mean, it had been a year now and all the arguing and fighting was over. If I was able to move on, why couldn't the rest of the town? They picked at it like a scab that was still sore, and I guessed it was.

We walked two blocks, past old houses and old trees dreaming in the hot summer sun. The bare ground had cracks in it from the heat, and even the weeds at the side of the road were drying up. Addie's brown hair had gone crazy curly with the humidity, and we were both sweaty. Pretty soon, we saw the vacant lot across from the drugstore with its large yellow sign: PONY RIDES- $2.00.

We crossed over to the sign and the low rail fence enclosing part of the vacant lot. At a corner of the fence was a hitching post with a small spotted horse dozing under a heavy western saddle. About ten sacks of feed leaned upright against the fence, next to an old rusty aqua and white trailer. There were no people in sight. We stared for a few minutes at the scrawny animal sweating in the sun.

"She looks exactly like Dotty," I murmured.

"Who's Dotty?" Addie wanted to know.

"A pony I used to ride out at Miss Julie's. Miss Julie Applegate? The pony died years ago, and she looked just like that, only not so skinny." I touched the horsehair worry bracelet I always wore. It was brown and white and made from Dotty's mane. I twisted it when I was nervous. We walked over close to the hitching post, and I shook my head sadly as I looked at the thin little horse. Her bony shoulders, ribs and hips stuck out; her matted mane and tail needed brushing.

"When Dad sees horses like this one," I told Addie, "he explains to the owners that they should worm their animals and feed them better. We both think people should have to pass a test to own animals."

"So, is it a pony or a horse?" Addie asked.

"Well, it goes by the breeds. You can have a large pony and a small horse that are about the same size. And cow ponies are really horses: they're only called ponies. Dotty was a POA pony, a Pony of the Americas, but she was pretty good-sized."

My dad was a veterinarian, and sometimes when there was no school, I got to go on farm calls with him. I helped out by holding things and handing stuff to him when he needed it. He explained to me as he worked, so I knew a lot about horses and medicine. I had made it my business to learn as much as I can for when I have my own horse. I'd been saving my baby sitting money, but now I had to use the little I'd saved to buy a new cell phone.

"Oh, you poor thing," I said as I ran my hand down the pony's bony shoulder and shooed away some flies that her tail couldn't reach. I bent over and checked under her belly. I knew how to tell a mare from a gelding, and this was a mare. She had patches of brown on her creamy body, just like Dotty, and even had the same white tips on her ears, making them look like feathers. My eyes prickled with tears when I saw the raw sores on her legs, probably from being hobbled with ropes.

"She looks terrible," said Addie. In answer, the pony yawned and licked her lips as though asking for water. She looked at me with huge, sad eyes, whuffed at me, then closed her eyes again.

"You girls want a ride? You got two bucks, you can ride her," a loud, rough voice said. A fat, oily man walked toward us. He smelled sweaty and wore a lime-green Hawaiian shirt.

"She needs some water, mister," I stated, staring up at him. "It's hot today and she's thirsty." Even if I had any money in my shorts pocket, I wouldn't give it to _him_.

"And she's hungry, too," added Addie.

The smelly man lost his grin for a moment, and I saw something mean in his beady blue eyes. Then he put his fake smile back on for us. "Oh, you don't need to worry about Rosie. She's fine. Just came back to feed and water her, in fact. Why don't you girlies run home and get some money and tell your friends about the pony ride? We'll be here till five o'clock."

"Okay, mister," I said, needing to get away and think about this.

"Name's Jake," he said, mopping sweat from his face. "See you later."

"Piper," said Addie, as we walked away. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," I said. "But we have to help her. We can't wait. We have to do something!" I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Jake's enormous bulk settling itself in a folding chair in the shade. He was talking on his cell phone and ignoring the pony. As we watched from behind a car, some creep in a dirty tank top crouched down by Jake's chair and started talking to him quietly. Jake got up and went into the small beat-up trailer. The skinny, creepy guy followed him.

"Look," I said. "He lied about feeding and watering her. He's another grown-up that can't be trusted. What a jerk!"

"Can we take her some food and water later when he's gone?"

"Yes, I think we should, but we should also turn Jake in for animal neglect. We have to protect that pony from him."

"Who do we tell about him?" Addie asked. "How about your dad? He's the only vet in town."

"I don't think he can help. He's pretty busy, but let's go try," I said. Maybe Dad was at the clinic and not out on a farm call. We could only hope. We headed down Main Street, wondering aloud to each other how long a horse could live without food and water.

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