Nightstorm and the Grand Slam (18 page)

Issie stood there for a while longer but the trees didn't hold any secrets any more. With a reluctant last look over her shoulder she rode on.

The backroads were quieter than usual that day. Nightstorm was in a good mood, and as they walked
along on a loose rein his merry, snorty grunts seemed to sound like he was humming a tune to himself.

By the time they reached the pony-club grounds, both of them had worked up a bit of a sweat and Issie tied Storm up to the club railing. The club rooms were unlocked and she'd brought enough loose change in her pockets to get a drink from the Coke machine.

Stepping inside the club rooms was like stepping into history. The place was still furnished with the same old overstuffed chairs, all still falling apart. In fact, Issie was pretty sure that those were the same ancient copies of
PONY Magazine
in the basket next to the coffee table.

She put her money in the slot and the drinks machine yielded up a can of Coke. She drank it as she led Storm to the trough and let him have some water. Then it was time to turn around and head home.

The walk back seemed shorter somehow – as they always do. Issie had just reached the grass verge that ran down the stretch of road from the River Paddock to Winterflood Farm when she heard hoofbeats behind her. She turned around and saw another horse and rider. The horse was a big chestnut, and even though he was clearly out for a casual hack, his rider had a very Natasha
Tucker-ish attitude to turnout and had him kitted out in sparkling white boots and a white saddle pad, the sort of tack that Issie kept for best. His rider was also dressed in a tailored jacket and white show jods. They made a stark contrast to Storm, who had a tatty old navy rug under his saddle and Issie whose outfit consisted of a faded old red T-shirt and her oldest, most worn-out beige jods.

The woman cast an eye over Nightstorm. You could see by her expression that she was far from impressed by this slightly tubby and elderly bay hack. She would have given him a wide berth but it was hard to do this without being obviously snobby and so she reluctantly fell in alongside Issie, walking her chestnut at a brisk clip.

“Hi!” Issie said brightly. “Isn't it a super day for a ride?”

“I hack Vanguard out once a week regardless of the weather,” the woman replied drily. “It's a vital part of his schooling.”

Now that they were side by side, Issie could see that the chestnut horse, Vanguard, totally suited his owner. He had a piggy eye and his ears were permanently
flattened back against his head. He clearly didn't fancy having Issie and Storm for company any more than his snooty rider did.

“Do you compete him?” Issie asked, trying to break the ice.

“Of course!” The woman seemed to regard the question as an insult. “Vanguard is a very valuable horse. A hugely experienced eventer! I mean, you're probably not aware of how the eventing world works, but it's a very difficult sport. I've ridden him at several three-days, competing over one-star courses. Massive jumps! Dressage is our forte. I've had lessons from all the best instructors – Germans mostly. None of the local instructors are good enough for me…”

Issie listened as the woman went into a lengthy description of her training regime and every rosette and ribbon that Vanguard had ever won. It was like being back at pony club and being cornered by Natasha Tucker!

It wasn't until they were at the gates of Winterflood Farm, that the woman finally paused for breath. She gave a dismissive glance at the bay horse that she had been riding beside this whole time and said loftily. “So what about him? Has he ever done anything?”

Issie reached down and gave her horse a slappy pat on his neck. “He used to compete,” she said, “but he's retired now.”

Issie smiled warmly at the woman. “Well, this is where I turn off. Enjoy the rest of your ride. It was nice to meet you.”

The woman frowned – they were at the gates of the famous Winterflood Farm. What business could this girl have turning off down there? Ohmygod! It couldn't be! Had she just made a terrible fool of herself?

“Wait!” she called anxiously after the girl. “You didn't tell me your name.”

The girl on the bay horse turned back and smiled. “I'm Isadora Brown,” she said. “And this is Nightstorm.”