Horse Wise (8 page)

“That’s a good answer. Thanks, Melanie,” the colonel said. Then, for the first time, the two intruders noticed Carole.

“Hi, there, daughter dear,” said the colonel. He grinned at Carole.

“Are you
her
dad?” the young rider asked in surprise. Carole cringed.

“Yup!” he answered. Then the two of them left. Her father waved before the door closed. She didn’t wave back. Carole put her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. As she did so, her hand brushed against her new Pony Club pin. She played with it absently as she thought. The Pony Club was something she wanted to be part of. It was something she cared about. She also cared about her father. He was a terrific dad, but a lousy horseman. These were two very important parts of her life, but they were separate parts, meant to stay that way.

She had to do something. Her father couldn’t go on like this. He wasn’t any use to the club, and it was embarrassing. Maybe, if her father could take lessons someplace else—not Pine Hollow—and read about a hundred books, then,
maybe
he’d be almost ready to think about being a Horse Wise sponsor. But not now. Not until he was ready to stop asking questions and begin answering them.

Carole realized she might not be the best person to tell her father this. He might not take her seriously, or she might even hurt his feelings. But he would take
Max seriously, and since Max was a professional, her father wouldn’t take his criticism personally. That was where she would go. Max would understand and help her. Satisfied that she had the right answer tq her problem, Carole stood up from the sack that had served as her seat and left the grain room.

“Hi, Carole,” Meg Durham greeted her in the stall hallway. “I was just talking to your dad. I showed him how to pick a horse’s hooves.”

“Was he a good student?” Carole asked drily.

Meg giggled.

Carole was sorry she’d asked. She didn’t like the idea of somebody giggling at her dad. She felt as if Meg were giggling at her!

Max was in the hallway, supervising something in one of the stalls. Carole needed to talk to him alone. She walked over to him and waited to get his attention. As soon as she saw what was going on, her heart sank. Betsy Cavanaugh was showing her father how to put a leg wrap on a horse.

“Max, can I talk to you—uh, privately?” Carole asked.

“Sure,” he said. A questioning look crossed his face. “Let’s go to my office.”

When the door closed on his office, they both sat down and Carole began. “It’s about—”

“I know. Veronica. What she did at the meeting was totally wrong and then I saw that she really just abandoned Garnet and you ended up doing all the work. I
don’t think I’m going to be able to change her, you know—”

“It isn’t about Veronica,” Carole interrupted. “It’s about my father.”

Max smiled. “It’s just great having him here,” he said warmly. “He’s so enthusiastic! He’s got everybody running in circles today. I love it!”

“You love it?” Carole thought she’d heard wrong.

“Every time I turn around, your father is right there, working with another Pony Clubber, one-on-one. It’s the best kind of instruction there is. Too few students get it.”

“It depends on who is doing the instructing and who is doing the learning,” Carole said.

“Oh, absolutely, but I can tell your father really knows how to teach and the riders love him.”

“Of course they love him. He’s lovable. He’s the greatest dad a girl could have. But, well, Max, don’t you think it might help him if he had a few, ah, riding lessons or something—you know, somewhere else?”

“No problem there, Carole. I’m doing a weekly class for all of the sponsors. Do you know, some of them really don’t know the first thing about horses?”

Now nothing at all made sense to Carole. There was no point in staying in Max’s office any longer. Talking to Max wasn’t going to help. No matter what anybody else said to her, she knew that her father didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t belong at Pine Hollow, and ultimately, he was going to make her look foolish.
The fact that he was a neat, charming guy wouldn’t carry him for very long. Eventually, something would have to be done. Carole just hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to do it.

O
N
M
ONDAY AFTERNOON
, Lisa’s parents picked her up once again after school. It was beginning to feel like a comfortable, familiar, but unproductive routine.

This time, the seller was a trainer. Her father had found an ad in the Sunday paper that sounded promising. The horse was a four-year-old bay. Mrs. Atwood was surprised that Lisa was willing to consider a bay, since she thought Lisa only wanted a chestnut. Lisa and her father decided not to try to explain it to her. Mrs. Atwood wasn’t stupid, but horse trading was not something that made much sense to her.

“He’s a beautiful horse,” the trainer, Mr. Michaels, said. One look at the horse and Lisa had to agree. His rich brown coat glistened in the sunshine. “I’ve been working with him and he learns fast. You’re an experienced rider, aren’t you, Mr. Atwood?” he asked.

“Me? Not at all. The rider in the family is Lisa. The horse is for her.”

“Oh,” Mr. Michaels said. Then he furrowed his brow. “I want to sell this horse, but I want the buyer to be happy. This is a good horse and he could be a great show horse someday, but he’s young. He needs an excellent rider—one who can continue training him and who has the time and the patience to do it right. I
mean, I believe there’s championship material here, but I’ve only been able to start the work. Another year or two, who knows? That’s one of the reasons I’m not asking for what I think he’ll be worth someday. He really needs more training.”

Lisa looked at the horse again. His name was Pretty Boy and she thought it was the perfect name for him.

“Think you want to try him anyway?” Mr. Michaels asked. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

Lisa nodded. She couldn’t resist.

It took a few minutes to tack up Pretty Boy. He fidgeted when the saddle went on and he fought the bit as Mr. Michaels bridled him. Lisa didn’t want to notice these things. All she wanted to do was to be in the saddle of the beautiful horse. And very soon, she was. She took the reins in her left hand and climbed on board from the mounting block.

Pretty Boy was tall, dark, and handsome. From where Lisa sat, she was mostly aware of how tall he was. At Pine Hollow, she was used to riding Pepper, who was at least a full hand shorter than Pretty Boy. Horses are measured in hands, which are four-inch units. Pretty Boy pranced about nervously. Lisa leaned forward and patted him on the neck reassuringly. “Easy, boy,” she said. He calmed a bit.

“You know what you’re doing, I see,” Mr. Michaels said. “Now try walking him in a circle. He and I have been working on that.”

Lisa signaled the horse with her legs and he responded.
She signaled for a right turn and he ignored her. Instead, he stepped backward.

“Be firm,” Mr. Michaels said.

Lisa knew that, but it wasn’t always easy to do. She signaled again, and he ignored her again. She tapped Pretty Boy on the left front shoulder with her riding crop. At last he turned right and began walking around the ring.

After the second time around the circle, she decided to try a trot. She nudged his belly to get him going. It worked, and he got going, but at a canter, not a trot. For what it was worth, it was a perfectly wonderful canter. Lisa felt as if she were on a rocking chair, gracefully shifting back and forth. But it wasn’t what she’d told the horse she wanted him to do. Lisa gave him a slow-down sign with her reins and seat. He slowed to a walk.

It took four more tries to get Pretty Boy to trot and sustain the gait. A trot was a jogging gait and on most horses it was bumpy. Somehow, Pretty Boy managed to do it smoothly.

“Hey, this is a great gait!” Lisa said. “And I love the canter, too, only I don’t like it when he wants to canter and I want to trot.” Lisa brought Pretty Boy to a walk and rode him over to where her parents and Mr. Michaels were standing.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mr. Michaels said.

“Yes, it is. He’s a wonderful horse, but not for me.”

“You two seem to be speaking a language I don’t
understand,” Mrs. Atwood said. “What’s going on here?”

Lisa tried to explain. “Mom, he’s a great horse—or more accurately, he
will
be a great horse, but he’s not fully trained. See, what I need is a horse I can ride. I just have a couple of hours a week to ride, and I’d spend them all training, not riding, if we bought Pretty Boy. Now, if you wanted to think about making a pasture out of our backyard and building a stable there, where I could have the horse right there—and maybe have a trainer come two or three hours a day to work with Pretty Boy so he’d be ready for me to ride when I wanted him—”

Mrs. Atwood looked horrified. “Are you actually suggesting that we change our entire—”

“Hold on, there, ma’am,” Mr. Michaels said. “Your daughter’s right about what it would take, but I think she’s joking. She knows this isn’t the right horse for her. Am I right?” he asked Lisa.

“Right,” she said. “But if he’s still for sale when he’s five …”

“I’m hoping to find Pretty Boy a home for life right now. But I’ll keep you in mind.”

Lisa dismounted and helped Mr. Michaels untack the horse. As she did, she thought about the kind of owner Pretty Boy should have. She should be an experienced rider, but one not so set in her ways that she wouldn’t have fun with a spirited horse. Pretty Boy should belong to somebody who spent a lot of time
with horses, maybe even worked with them for a living. He would need a shot at show riding, jumping, and hunting, all kinds of experiences. Lisa hoped very much that Mr. Michaels would be able to find exactly the right person for Pretty Boy.

“L
ISA
,
YOU
’
D BETTER
come over,” Stevie said excitedly on the telephone Tuesday evening. “You’ve got to see what’s happening to my radishes!”

“Radishes? What radishes?” Lisa asked. She had been interrupted in the middle of her history homework and she hadn’t yet cleared her brain of the Wars of the Roses to shift into radish gear.

“You know, my
radishes!
” Stevie said insistently.

Then Lisa remembered Stevie’s science project. “Oh,
those
radishes. What is it? Is there a problem?”

“No, but they’re doing things. You have to see!” Stevie didn’t wait for an answer. She hung up the phone.

Lisa giggled to herself. When Stevie got excited about something, no matter what it was, it was almost impossible not to get excited with her. So much for the
Wars of the Roses. She couldn’t keep the reds and whites straight from one another anyway.

Lisa grabbed a sweat shirt, told her parents where she was going, and was out the door before anybody could object. She wasn’t going far anyway. Stevie’s house was just at the other end of the block.

Thinking about Stevie made her think about The Saddle Club and the secret she was keeping from her two best friends. Some secrets were nice, but it depended on whom you were keeping them secret from. Lisa also knew that if she didn’t tell her friends, they’d find out about it somehow. Lisa’s mother would tell Mrs. diAngelo, who would tell somebody else—maybe even Veronica—and Carole and Stevie would be sure to hear about it. And the only thing worse than keeping a secret from her friends would be having her friends learn about it from somebody else—especially Veronica diAngelo! Lisa had to tell them soon.

“I will,” she said out loud to the cool evening. “I’ll tell Stevie tonight. Right now, in fact. Then it won’t be a horrible secret anymore and I can stop worrying about it.” Just saying it out loud made her feel better. She was practically skipping by the time she mounted the steps to Stevie’s house, and she was definitely skipping when she climbed the stairs to Stevie’s room.

“Look at these guys!” Stevie said, proudly showing Lisa one of her radish pots. “I mean look and see what Mother Nature has done here!”

Lisa dropped her sweat shirt on Stevie’s bed and
joined Stevie at her desk, where the lamp on it was totally focused on “Pot Number One: Light and Water.” At first, Lisa didn’t see a thing. Then, when she took a closer look, she detected quite a few little greenish-white sprouts pushing up through the dirt.

“They’re growing!” Stevie said. “It’s really working. Aren’t they just so cute you can’t believe it?”

At first, Lisa thought that cute was a strange word to describe the tiny radish shoots, but the more she thought about it and the more she looked, the more she decided Stevie was right. “Definitely cute,” she agreed. “And how about the other pots?”

“Nothing.”

“Great, that’s just the way it’s supposed to be,” Lisa said. “See, I told you it would be easy.”

“I’ve decided something,” Stevie said. “As soon as this crop of radishes is ready to be harvested, I’ll call you and you can come over and have your choice of the bounty of my science experiment. I’ll even provide the salt—that is, if you like your radishes with salt. All because you’re a real friend.”

Lisa knew that Stevie said it to be funny and to thank her. Stevie was being so nice that Lisa felt guilty. It was time to be a real friend and tell Stevie her secret.