The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

down his lawn. A grim smile transformed his rugged face into a sinister mask. The horrendous crash of underbrush had been music to his ears. He’d fooled him. The mighty Dancer had been outwitted by a few branches cleverly placed over a gaping hole in the earth, littered at the bottom with jagged boulders.

      Hopefully the wretched animal was now writhing in agony with a broken leg, or better yet, a broken neck. Owens would tell people that he had to put Dancer out of his misery, out of compassion for an injured beast in deathly pain. A mercy killing. Owens’ smile got broader. Now he would finish the stallion off, once and for all. Once Dancer was dead, he could get on with his life. He could put his mind to other things. Like procuring his privacy.

      Owens’ valet came panting out of the mansion’s side entrance and called, “Mr. Owens! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!”

      Owens abruptly turned to glare at his quivering manservant.

      “My apologies, Mr. Owens, but—”

      “Walter,” said Owens quietly. He spoke softly but in such a menacing manner that Walter was struck dumb in mid-sentence. “Walter, I’m busy. Can you see that, Walter?”

      “Y-yes s-sir,” he stammered. “But you were expecting Mrs. Casey, and you told me to inform you immedi—”

      “Yes, I did, Walter. Good boy. Could you show her to the study and pour her a drink? I’ll be along shortly. I have a little business to take care of.”

      “Yes, sir, Mr. Owens, sir.”

      “Samuel, darling!”

      Owens turned his head and watched as Helena Casey floated across the lawn toward him. She was wearing a cream linen pant suit with a magenta scoop-necked blouse and matching pumps. Her blond hair was swept up in a glamorous French roll, and her teeth gleamed in her perfectly made-up face. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears. She took his breath away.

      Owens found himself hiding the shotgun behind his back. “Walter, take this,” he ordered under his breath, shoving the weapon at the obedient man.

      Dancer can stew in his own juice for a little while, Owens thought savagely, striding up to greet the vision in cream. I have bigger and more delectable fish to fry. Let the creature die slowly, he’s not going anywhere.

      Cody began to dig. His right hind leg was still not strong so he put all his weight on the left, and furiously dug with his two front paws. He worked steadily, creating an ever-growing pile of earth behind him.

      Dancer was on his back, surrounded by sharp rocks. The hole was deep and it narrowed at the bottom. Dancer’s legs were hidden by thick, leaf-covered broken branches with sharp points, and tangled in long, unyielding vines.

      The mighty stallion lay there, stunned. The world was spinning in crazy circles. He couldn’t get his eyes focused. Where was he? His legs scrambled, but to no avail. His head was bleeding and his legs were badly scraped.

      Cody dug. Left, right, left, right, left, right. The man was coming to hurt them. He must get the Good Horse out.

      Dancer rested. He closed his eyes to stop the spinning.

      He slept.

      Twenty minutes passed. The pile of earth behind Cody had grown into a small hill. Cody stopped to rest, panting hard. His front paws were bleeding, his muscles spent. He listened intently. No man-noise. He sniffed the air keenly. No man-scent. He looked down at Dancer. The Good Horse wasn’t moving.

      Cody slid down a little further. He grabbed a thick branch with his mouth and yanked on it, trying to lug it out of the hole to clear the way. The movement startled the horse, and he started thrashing.

      Cody didn’t let go. He tugged and pulled and hauled the branch up. He went back for another. And another. And yet another.

      Dancer’s head was beginning to clear. He realized that Abby’s coyote was helping him. He began to understand the animal’s plan. Dancer moved his front right leg. There was no pain. With his teeth he pulled on the vine that twisted around it, and removed it from his leg. He carefully tested his front left. It was sore, but it moved. His hips hurt when he moved his hind legs, but at least Dancer knew that once he could get himself righted, all four legs would support him.

      Cody slid down the path he’d dug, into the pit. The steep wall was now a slope, and Cody thought that Dancer should be able to walk out. He sniffed at Dancer’s head. There was a lot of blood. Cody couldn’t understand why Dancer still lay there. He yipped.

      Dancer flinched at the noise so close to his ears. He nickered, twisting his neck first to the left, then to the right.

      Cody showed him how to get out. He bounded easily up the side of the hole, spun around, then stood looking down at him. He yipped again, and wagged his tail.

      Dancer threw his head forward and paddled his legs. No good. He couldn’t find a way to get his feet under him. He was like a turtle on its back. He was helpless.

      Cody froze. Footsteps coming. Man steps.

      He slid down beside Dancer and whined softly, pushing him urgently with his nose.

      Dancer tried again.

      The tack was cleaned and oiled. The time was up. Abby jumped on her bike and raced across to the farmhouse. She pounded on Christine’s kitchen door, opened it, and hollered, “Mrs. James! I’m going to look for Dancer! Bye!” and she sped down the lane.

      Abby thought fast. If Cody isn’t here, he must be with Dancer, who must be in trouble. When Cody goes travelling, he takes the path past Wick Farm, Owens’ and the Caseys’. Abby headed north.

      Christine rushed out of her office. “Abby, wait! I’m coming!” She threw open the kitchen door and looked outside. No sign of Abby. Christine grabbed her car keys and ran for the car, uncertain of where to go.

      Cody whined with fear. The Bad Man was coming. He was already down the hill and entering the woods. Very soon he would be at the hole. Cody looked down into the hole. Dancer was still on his back, resting again. Maybe there was no hope.

      Cody slid down the side and nudged Dancer. Get up get up get up! The exhausted, injured beast didn’t move.

      Cody’s ears picked up another sound. His Abby’s spinning machine! He could hear it coming toward them. No! She must not come! The man would hurt her, too. Cody leapt up to the top and looked for her.

      Suddenly, with a huge effort, the valiant stallion arched his back, leaning all his weight on his bloodied head. He tucked his hocks under him as best as he could. With one mighty thrust he propelled his body forward, shoulders finally breaking free from the boulders. He sat on his haunches like a dog. With his front feet on the ground, he wiggled his back end until he had it positioned properly over his hind legs. With another great effort, Dancer threw his weight up and forward. He stood.

      Cody vibrated with impatience. Let’s go let’s go let’s go! His Abby was coming, and she shouldn’t be here when the man arrived. He listened. The man was getting very close, too close. Cody’s sharp ears knew he was only thirty seconds away if he continued to walk at the same pace. If he walked any faster, there was no time left at all.

      Dancer stood still, gathering his strength. His head was spinning and his eyes were out of focus. The cut on his head had been reopened by his efforts, and blood was running down his face.

      Cody hopped from leg to leg. His senses told him to run from danger; his loyalty kept him with Dancer. Dancer, right-side up but deep in the hole, shook his head and snorted.

      Now now now! urged Cody.

      Abby came racing from the direction of the road and appeared around the trees, panting hard as she pedalled her bike along the bumpy path.

      “Cody!” she called, comforted and elated to see him.

      In the same instant, Samuel Owens came crashing through the woods from the other side, double-barrelled shotgun at his side.

      Cody