Stagestruck. Shelley Peterson

that she’d forgotten to breathe. Farmer Wick was a weathered man in his seventies, tall and lanky with a slightly spreading belly. His red and black checkered jacket was wet from the rain, and he wore green rubber boots and a soaked olive-green cap with ear flaps. He looked as frightened as Abby felt. Step by tentative step he sidled into the theatre, sliding his back along the wall, darting his eyes all over the large room. He carried a shotgun.

      “Mr. Wick?” Abby called.

      The old man jumped. “What?” he blurted. “Who’s there?”

      “It’s me, Abby Malone. I’m behind the curtain, and I’m coming out. Cody is with me. Please don’t shoot. Can you hear me, Mr. Wick?” Abby was nervous. She knew that a person with a gun could make a mistake when frightened, even Mr. Wick.

      Robert Wick lowered the shotgun. “Abby Malone.” He took a deep breath. “The gun’s not loaded. Show yourself. Where are you?”

      “I’m here, behind the curtain,” she repeated. “Here.” To show Mr. Wick where she was, she poked the fabric with her hand and shook it.

      “Okay, Abby, I see you. Come on out.”

      Abby lifted the heavy velvet, then emerged cautiously with Cody, trusting that the gun was empty.

      “Now, what the blazes are you doing in my barn, on my property, without permission, in the middle of a whopping big storm?”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Wick. I can explain everything . . .” Abby began.

      “I can’t hear you. You’re mumbling. Speak up.”

      “I can explain everything,” Abby projected loudly. “We, that is my two horses and Cody and me, got caught in the storm and we needed to get out of the wind and rain but especially the lightning, so we found shelter in your shed, but I was cold and I thought there might be an old horse blanket in the barn, but when I got here I realized it wasn’t a barn but a theatre, so I couldn’t help but look around, and I hope it’s all right.” Abby took a breath. She’d been speaking very quickly, and when she stopped the theatre resonated with the echoes of her voice. Wick took his time.

      Finally he spoke. “I guess that’s fine.”

      Abby was relieved. “Thank you so much. Well, I’ll go now. I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll never do it again.”

      “I must say you scared the living daylights out of me,” Mr. Wick said, relaxing.

      “And me, too. You scared the living daylights out of me.” Abby and Cody had come down the stairs and were walking toward the door.

      “I come to check on the farm every few days,” said Mr. Wick, feeling more talkative. “It’s been empty for a long time, since my wife died and I moved into the bungalow, but until today nobody’s bothered with it, if you don’t count the ghost. That’s why, when I saw the lights on, I grabbed my shotgun. It’s not loaded, but it’s scary. I had no idea what I’d be facing. I apologize for that, Abby.”

      Abby stopped dead. “A ghost?”

      2

      THE RETURN OF SAMUEL OWENS

      HILARY JAMES CONTINUED TO STARE out the kitchen window at the rain. Her reflection stared back. Tall with shoulder-length, light brown hair streaked with blond, Mousie had grown into an attractive, intelligent woman of twenty-two. The show-jumping passion that had taken her and Dancer to the top of that world had been replaced by a love of ancient civilizations, a love that she shared with Sandy Casey, her fiancé. The two planned to join an archeological dig for a year in Belize, and they were practising their Spanish in anticipation.

      She was thinking about Abby Malone, the girl she’d first met two years earlier. Abby had been riding bareback, chasing hunting dogs away from her beloved Cody. Such spunk, Hilary thought. She remembered the day of the steeplechase, when Abby competed against some tough riders on her little quarter-horse mare. Mousie admired the younger girl’s uncanny ability with horses; but more than that, she liked her spirit.

      Now, Abby was somewhere out there with two horses and her coyote. Mousie thought over the options. The first, and most sensible, would be to wait and hope that they got back okay. And likely they would. Plus, as her mother said, where would she begin to look? They could be anywhere. Should she risk herself and Dancer getting struck by lightning, or mired in mud?

      The other option was to saddle up Dancer and go. Doing something, however rash, was easier than standing idle. At least if something awful happened, she could tell herself that she had tried.

      Hilary pulled on her rubber riding boots and zipped up her waxed canvas slicker. Pepper hopped around in excitement, thrilled at the prospect of an adventure. “No, Pepper. You stay.” Immediately, the little dog’s ears dropped and she slunk away to her tiny basket in the corner of the kitchen. Hilary threw on her hard hat and hollered, “I’m going to look for Abby, Mom. See you later.”

      “Mousie? Did you say something?” Christine’s voice floated up from the basement, where the laundry was in full gear.

      Hilary walked to the top of the basement stairs. “I’ll be back soon. I’m going to find Abby.”

      “You’re crazy!” The pounding of feet sounded on the stairs. “Where are you going to look? It’s dangerous to be out there on a horse with the lightning!” Christine anxiously wiped her soapy hands on her jeans.

      “I can’t just sit and wait. I’ll be careful.”

      “How can you be careful of where lightning strikes?”

      “Mom, what are the chances? Abby might have a broken leg or something.”

      Christine could see that her daughter would not be deterred. “Then don’t take Dancer, he hasn’t been ridden in ages. He’ll be too fresh. Take Henry, he’ll be much calmer in this storm.”

      “Mom, I’ve got the cell phone.” Hilary patted her pocket. “I’m taking Dancer. He’ll follow anyway if I take Henry, and then I’ll have two horses to worry about, like Abby.” She put on her riding gloves, turned to the door, and headed out to the barn.

      The wind was powerful, and the rain felt like needles prickling her face. If her mother hadn’t been standing at the window worrying, Hilary might have been tempted to turn back.

      Dancer stood in the barn out of the rain. His coat was totally dry. Dancer’s barnmate, Henry, was lying down in his stall. A solid bay gelding of Clydesdale and thoroughbred origins, Henry was dreaming happy horse dreams, ears twitching and lower lip flapping. He looked comical, like a talking horse.

      Hilary carried her newly cleaned saddle and bridle from the tack room and placed them on the rack in the aisle. “Dancer, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s bad out there, but we’re going to look for Abby and Moonie, your girlfriend, remember her? And your daughter, Moon Dancer.” She laughed at herself, talking to Dancer like he was a person. She’d always done that. Somehow, he’d always seemed more like a person to her than a horse.

      With Dancer tacked up and ready to go, Hilary walked into the pelting rain. Dancer tucked his tail between his legs and hunched his back when the strong wind surprised him, but he stood quietly at the mounting block as Hilary hopped on. She put her feet in the stirrups and tightened the girth.

      It was good to be up on his back again. It seemed like she’d been there all along, like she’d never gone off to university. She felt his power and his strong personality through the saddle, just like the old days.

      Lightning flashed diagonally across the sky and thunder boomed and crashed. Dancer spooked sideways and started to prance.

      “Let’s try the woods behind the Caseys’ and travel along the ridge above Saddle Creek. Come on, Dancer, don’t wimp out on me now.”

      Fiona Malone paced the kitchen, trying hard not to pour a drink. A small drink to calm her nerves, just a sip. Nobody would know. Couldn’t she be excused, with the worry of Abby