The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

the bullet in Dancer’s saddle?”

      Owens’ eyebrows lifted. So I did hit him, he thought. “A bullet? In a saddle, you say?” I haven’t quite lost my touch.

      “You don’t know anything about it?”

      He pursed his lips, to keep from showing his pleasure. “No. Should I?”

      “I’d like to take your rifle to the police lab. If you know nothing about that bullet, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

      “The problem is that I might need it if that rabid coyote comes around looking for my other cat.” His eyes glinted. “But if you had a warrant, I’d happily oblige.”

      Walter appeared, anxiously offering Owens a Bloody Caesar with lime on a silver tray.

      “Ah, just what I was dreaming of.” Owens lifted the frosted glass off the tray and took a big drink. “Excuse me, Chief, I must go rest. Walter, don’t go away. I might just want another. More pepper next time.”

      Mack stalked from Owens’ mansion to his unmarked car. He was upset. Where had this interview gotten him? Nowhere. Except now Owens knew that he was being watched. Maybe it would curb him. More likely it would make him more careful.

      At the trial five years before, Mack had argued strongly that Owens be locked up in jail. It didn’t happen. Fat lot of good the mental hospital did him, Mack mused. Mack had been worried when Owens was released, but could not have guessed how quickly he’d make trouble. Starting with the bullet in Dancer’s saddle, and leading to who knows where.

      It’ll only get worse, you can bet on that, he thought. Owens is a slippery one. There’s going to be trouble. Mack vowed to watch him like a hawk. He’d take no shortcuts, make no assumptions. He knew how dangerous Owens could be. He wanted him in jail.

      There was an excited crowd at the library bulletin board that afternoon. People of all ages were craning their necks to see what part they’d got in The Stonewick Playhouse’s first show. It was going to be Pinocchio. The village and circus scenes could have countless participants, allowing everyone to have a part.

      Volunteers for lighting crew, set building, props, wardrobe, and sound effects were asked to sign up on a large white piece of paper beside the cast list. Already there were dozens of entries. Petr Baloun had offered his considerable talents as an inventor and iron sculptor to create a movable giant dogfish for the ocean scene.

      The joyful noises escaped the hall, causing Miss Smithers, now the librarian after resigning from her job as a supply teacher, to rush out shushing everyone.

      “Remember where you are, please,” Miss Smithers haughtily whispered. “This is a library, not a theatre.” There was no mistaking her disdain for the latter, but even Miss Smithers at her most sour could not diminish the holiday mood in the hall.

      Everyone was talking at once. “George Farrow! You got Geppetto!”; “I get to play the ticket-taker on Runaway Island!”; “How could they cast Leslie Morris as Trooper? It’s written for a boy!”; “Do I have to sing?”; “My mother won’t believe what I’m doing!”; “Do we have to do our own makeup?”

      Joy Featherstone and Robert Wick watched in amazement. “What have we done?” wondered Joy aloud. She had not expected such a huge reaction.

      “We’ve filled a need, it would seem,” answered Robert proudly. “We’ve unleashed the child in each adult, and allowed the children to play.”

      Joy laughed. “Isn’t it great? The whole township is here.”

      “Except Abby,” noted Robert. “Wasn’t she interested?”

      “I didn’t want to push, so we never talked about it. Maybe I should have encouraged her.”

      “Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen as using your influence, so she stepped back.”

      Joy nodded. “Maybe so.”

      “We’ll find a way to get her involved,” Robert stated. “She has real stage presence. I saw it immediately, the day of the storm.”

      “The day you told her about Ambrose Brown?” Joy smiled.

      “That very day. What are you doing for dinner tonight, Joy of my life?”

      Joy Featherstone blushed with pleasure.

      Abby and Hilary had a very productive afternoon. They sat at the round table in the Hogscroft kitchen charting Dancer’s training schedule.

      Abby was to start hand-walking Dancer daily, starting at thirty minutes and adding five minutes a day. After the walk, she would cold-hose his scraped legs and wrap them for the night. Christine would remove the bandages each morning. That was week one.

      Week two, providing Alan Masters approved after an examination of his head wound, Abby was to start riding. She would walk only, with a loose rein, very relaxed. She would walk him longer each day until he was up to one hour.

      Week three, she would hack him on a loose rein the first two days. Walk, trot, no cantering. Thirty minutes on day one, forty minutes on day two. Day three, she would hack out but start collecting his gaits slightly and ask him for a little canter. She would also do that days four and five. By day six of the third week, Abby would be in the ring, moving him along and asking for leads.

      Week four was a gradually increasing course of jumps. On day six, Abby would hack him down the road. Week five was heavy jump work on days one and three. Days two, four, and five, Abby and Dancer would hack across country. The plan was that he would be rested and eager to jump on day six.

      Day six of week five was June 26, the day of the Grand Invitational.

      The plan was completely dependent on Dancer’s health. If he wasn’t happy working, Abby was to immediately call Alan Masters. Alan Masters would also check Dancer once a week. If at any time he thought Dancer wasn’t handling the work well, Abby would call Hilary and they’d discuss whether or not to proceed.

      Hilary and Abby walked out to the jumping ring. Hilary showed Abby how to place the jumps. She’d drawn charts of jumping courses with heights, widths, and distances clearly marked. They set up the first course that Dancer would do in week four. Hilary walked her through it, explaining how to pace to get the distances right. To make Abby’s work easier, she gave her instructions on how to ride each jump, and tips peculiar to Dancer.

      Abby’s head was full of details as she cycled home. Her knapsack contained multiple instructions and intricate course maps. It was much more demanding than she’d realized. This exacting, technical, and extremely difficult sport looked so easy when it was done well.

      Abby remembered when she’d first seen Hilary on Dancer at a horse show seven years earlier. Everyone called her Mousie then. Abby was nine years old, and she’d never forgotten the impression they’d made on her. Dancer, effortlessly sailing over a course that others found treacherous. Mousie, guiding her mount with such light hands and quiet body that it looked like she was doing nothing at all.

      After today’s intense lesson, Abby knew it was artistry in its highest form. No rhythm was taken for granted, no corner unplanned. Every possible combination and permutation was considered and practised so that when faced with the course, horse and rider were prepared.

      In competition, riders walk the course before they ride it. The horses see it for the first time when they come into the ring to be judged. It’s part of the difficulty of the course, because by nature, horses don’t like surprises. They like to be familiar with their environment, and each strange obstacle represents possible danger to them. There might be a mountain lion or a snake lurking on the other side, or the jump itself might wake up and turn into a monster. Therefore, the more confident and well-schooled the horse, the less stressed it will be when faced with a new course.

      It was a lot to absorb, Abby thought as she pedalled along. She wondered if she was crazy thinking that she could even get around. Especially