Stagestruck. Shelley Peterson

up cheap. That was another call for the morning.

      He found himself looking for Dancer again.

      Owens put his binoculars down with a jerk. He must forget about Dancer; that piece of no-good trash in a horse suit! He scowled. He couldn’t waste time imagining the wretched animal all over the place, running through the woods, then up on the Wick’s high field just moments ago with two other horses. He had better things to do!

      He hadn’t thought of Dancer in a long time. Perhaps coming home had restimulated that obsession. He decided to take action. He would concentrate on his new goals, not his old goals. He would not wait another minute. He would visit Helena Casey this evening, and put Dancer completely out of his head.

      “Walter!” he hollered, ringing the bell. “Walter, get out my grey flannel pants, the yellow paisley ascot, and my navy cashmere blazer. I’m going out!”

      “I’ll leave you here, Abby,” said Hilary, as Abby’s farm came into view.

      “Thanks for walking me home.”

      Hilary smiled. “It was fun.”

      “And thanks for coming out to find me. I might have needed help.”

      “It was a nasty storm, all right.”

      Abby and Hilary waved their goodbyes, and Abby continued along the road. “Don’t forget, Abby,” Hilary called back. “Tomorrow morning!”

      Abby yelled, “I’ll be there!” and grinned broadly. She looked around for Cody. He was nowhere in sight. Abby hadn’t seen him since the Wick’s sheep field.

      She could not get the thought of riding Dancer out of her mind. She’d never even allowed herself to dream of it. Dancer! Mousie James herself had asked her to ride him. Amazing. She shook her head. Too amazing!

      Since Abby was a small girl, the legend of Mousie and Dancer had grown bigger each year. The team was almost mythical to the legions of young riders in Caledon and the surrounding areas. The powerful, dangerous stallion with only one rider.

      There were many stories circulating about Dancer, some fact, some fiction. Gossip about the money offered for him and turned down. Rumours about his tempestuous disposition. Stories about people who’d tried to ride him and got hurt. Abby hoped that she wouldn’t be another of those. If the fall didn’t crush her, the disappointment would.

      After untacking and grooming Dancer, Hilary went into the house. Her mother was on the phone. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “Hi, honey! I’m on the phone with your grandmother.”

      “Tell her I want to talk to her,” said Hilary, smiling.

      Christine nodded. “Mom, come visit. We’ll put our heads together. Mousie wants to talk to you. Bye.” She passed the phone to her daughter.

      “Grandma!” she said.

      “Hi, beautiful. I hear you went out on a rescue mission. Well done! How’s everything?”

      “Fine, now that the sun’s out and everyone’s safe. It’s hard to believe there was ever a storm! Grandma, I just met someone who remembers you, shall we say, fondly?”

      “Fondly, Mousie? Am I to start guessing, or are you going to tell me?” “You have to guess, but I’ll give you clues. First clue, he loves theatre.”

      “Christopher Plummer?”

      “You know Christopher Plummer?”

      “No. Next clue.”

      “Very funny. Clue number two. He thought he was too old for you.”

      “Are we talking about my visits to the old age home?”

      “We’re talking high school days, and that counts as clue number three.”

      “Then I think I know. Theatre plus high school equals no one else but Robert Wick!”

      “Bingo! Three clues. Not bad.”

      “Where’d you see Robert?”

      “At his farm. There’s a theatre in his barn. It’s incredible.”

      “It is, isn’t it? How’s he look after all these years?”

      “Probably all right once he’s cleaned up.”

      “You could say the same for me. Isn’t his farm for sale?”

      “Yes. Apparently it’s been on the market for ages.”

      “Hmm. You know, I might come take a look. I need a new project. I was talking to your mother about that just now. Things are far too boring around here, and I’m not ready for Florida.”

      “You’d buy a run-down old theatre, Gran?”

      “Give me one good reason why not.”

      Abby was getting a little worried. She’d brushed down the horses and watered them, and Cody had still not appeared. The last time she’d seen him was in the upper Wick field. She turned from the shed toward the house. She’d ask her father to drive her back to Wick Farm to look for him.

      Cody! The small grey coyote jumped the fence and barrelled over to her. Abby reached down to pat him, and Cody licked her hand. He wiggled all over with excitement. Abby kneeled and hugged him.

      “Good boy,” she cooed, rubbing his ears. “Clever boy. You came the long way, didn’t you, and stayed away from the wild coyotes. I’m so happy to see you.” Relief flooded over her, and the empty feeling in her stomach disappeared.

      With Cody safely at her side, Abby stood and surveyed the field where her horses grazed. She sighed with contentment. The grass was soaking wet, and shone a vibrant emerald green in the fading light.

      The horses stayed at Merry Fields, the Piersons’ farm, for the winter because it had a barn. Her father had built a loafing shed and repaired all the fences so that Abby could bring them home for the summer. Some day the Malones would rebuild their barn, which had burned down two years earlier, and Abby would be able to have them with her all year. Mr. Pierson said he loved taking care of them, but Abby knew that mucking out and lugging water was becoming more and more difficult for him.

      Abby thought about the Piersons and how they’d helped her through all the trouble she’d had two years ago. Her father had wrongfully been sent to jail, Abby was having problems at school, and her mother was drowning her sorrows in alcohol. Mr. and Mrs. Pierson had been her dear and loyal friends throughout, her support when she had nowhere else to turn. It all seemed so long ago, Abby mused.

      Moonie and Leggy peacefully grazed in the front field. Abby leaned on the fence and admired them. Their coats, one mahogany and one copper, shone in the light of the setting sun. Abby took a deep breath, relishing the sight.

      “Beautiful, aren’t they?” asked a cheerful voice with an Irish lilt.

      “Dad! You startled me!” Abby turned to look into the handsome, smiling face of her father. Slimly built and agile, Liam had passed his athletic genes on to his daughter.

      “I’m glad you got home safely, Abby my dear.” His green eyes twinkled as he spoke. “That was a storm and a half. Your mother was worried about you.”

      Abby smiled at him. “I was fine. We found shelter at Mr. Wick’s.” Her face lit up. “Dad, there’s a theatre in his barn! It’s terrific. Did you know there’s a ghost in it? Mr. Wick told me about him. His name is Ambrose Brown and he was an actor who loved that theatre and wanted to be buried there.”

      “I remember Ambrose Brown. Your mother and I went to several plays there before you were born. He was great. Very funny, and very moving, too. They say he died unhappy.”

      “Why, Dad? Because the theatre was shutting down?”

      “There was more to it than that, but I really don’t recall. Something about unrequited love. Maybe your mother will remember. Oh,