The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

get Dancer settled,” said Liam, taking charge. “Then we can figure out how to get ourselves organized.”

      “Look!” exclaimed Abby. “Over there. The Piersons are here.” They all looked to see where she was pointing. Pete’s new green sedan was parked half a field away in a row of cars. Pete was gallantly helping Laura out of the passenger’s side. She wore a brilliant ensemble of yellows, pinks, and bright blues. Just as her large pink sunhat lifted with a gust of wind, Pete grabbed it and slammed it onto her head.

      Fiona chuckled and said, “I’ll go with them. I’ll meet you at stall thirty-three.” She strode across the field turned parking lot, happy to have a chance to visit with the Piersons while the others dealt with the details of the show.

      Two hours later, Abby was on Dancer’s back, surveying her competition. Her personal cheering section was settled in the stands. Liam had managed to secure her the number “97,” the same number that Mousie had always worn when she competed. Abby checked that the string was tied properly. Even though the day was heating up, Abby shivered with nerves. She forced her mouth shut to stop her teeth from chattering.

      They’d drawn their places. Ian Millar was going first on his newest champion, Beaverbrook. Jay Hayes was next on the brilliant Raven. Chris Pratt had pulled the gallant Davos out of retirement, and Jill Henselwood was riding Leicester Square. Dancer and Abby were the last of eighteen entries.

      Abby became more and more uneasy. What was she doing here? She couldn’t be more outclassed. What are they all thinking about me? she wondered. I should have a sign on my back, “Dancer was invited, that’s why I’m here.”

      Over there was Beth Underhill and the great Monopoly. There was Ainsley Vince. Gayle Greenough. Mac Cone. Hugh Graham with Secret Agent. Jennifer Foster with Zeus. Lisa Carlsen came back from Edmonton for the show, and the Spruce Meadows contingent was highly visible, with Jonathon Asselin and John Pearce on their powerful mounts. Mario DesLaurier and Nightingale trucked in from Quebec with hopes of winning the coveted Grand Invitational Trophy.

      Not only was the competition scary, the stands were filling with Canada’s riding elite. Abby spotted Jimmy Day and Torchy Miller, Olympic team medal winners. Further along sat the Gayford family, and she was sure she saw Jim Elder and his brother Norman. The famous Major Gutowski, coach of Canada’s winning team in the sixties, perched on a seat in all his stiff-backed military elegance.

      Holy, thought Abby as her stomach lurched, I’m going to crash and burn in front of all the horse greats in Canada. I won’t even remember the course.

      The rules of the Grand Invitational were simple. The ride with the best time and the fewest faults would win. Each knocked-down rail counted as four faults. If a horse refused to jump, four faults were added. Two refusals, and the horse and rider would be eliminated. There was a prescribed time in which the course should be completed, and each second over that time was one-quarter of a fault. Horses that jumped clean within the time would jump again in a jump-off.

      The caller ran into the warm-up ring. “First horse, please. Ian Millar, please, at the gate.” As Abby watched, Beaverbrook lifted his head delicately and trotted through the entrance, tail swishing, head high.

      Abby observed his ride very carefully. She had a lot to learn from the way this man rode, and she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. She noticed the way he slowed before a tight turn, and the way he set up his mount for the first oxer. He kept his head up and his hands still throughout his ride. It was almost like he was merely a passenger, doing nothing. The art of concealing art, thought Abby. He made it look so easy. Abby wasn’t fooled.

      But suddenly the crowd groaned. Beaverbrook had landed in the water jump. That was four faults. His back hooves slid on the slippery bottom and he struggled to right himself. Shaken, the horse lost confidence as he came into the triple combination. He knocked over a rail, but landed well, and expertly cleared the second and third jumps in the obstacle, thrilling the crowd.

      Abby could feel the release of tension in the riders around her. Hugh Graham, sitting next to her on Secret Agent, breathed out. Ian Millar was the man to beat, and he’d just raised all their hopes by racking up eight faults.

      Ian and Beaverbrook finished the course without further faults. Always a gentleman, Ian Millar patted his horse and waved to the crowd, smiling as he exited the ring.

      Raven snorted and twisted to the starting gate. He bucked in anticipation of his solo in the spotlight as the crowd laughed with pleasure. He was Jay Hayes’s feisty gelding, and named appropriately. Black as the bird, and seeming to fly, he was brilliant and keen, quick and accurate. Jump after jump, he flew and soared, defying gravity.

      Abby checked the timer. He was speeding through this course in a time that few could touch. Abby wasn’t even going to try. She would have to go for a clean round.

      Raven made too tight a turn and found himself face to face with a five-and-a-half-foot jump. He crashed through the wide oxer, leaving bars scattered like pick-up sticks. Legs stinging with pain, the horse hopped and danced. Jay faced him at the last jump, a multicoloured creation that looked like a flight of stairs. He bounced gamely toward it, then had second thoughts, and slid to a halt inches away. They could have another go at it. Jay checked his horse’s legs, decided that no further damage would be done, and faced it again. Raven cleared it easily. The crowd roared its approval as he doffed his hat, patted his horse’s neck, and left the ring.

      As riding hero followed riding hero, Abby became more and more demoralized. She realized the difficulty of the course, and how inadequate she was. If the big riders were having this much trouble, what chance did Abby have? How could she even imagine herself to be in this league? By the time the tenth horse had finished, only Mario DesLaurier and Kim Kirton had gone clean, and they had overtime faults. Hugh Graham was up next.

      Abby noticed each rider’s different style. She wondered if the rider adapted his style to the horse, or if the horse conformed to the rider’s style. She knew that Moonie liked her to have a more forward seat than Dancer, and Abby rode that way to please her. And Dancer was offended if she gave him too clumsy a cue. He liked her to be subtle, and so she tried to ride him very quietly.

      Hugh rode in with gusto and courage, and Abby was sure that the horses who liked his style would do anything for him. Secret Agent was jumping like a superhero, snorting and prancing around the course easily. They got into trouble in the middle of the triple combination jump. Coming fast out of the water jump, he’d jumped big over the first upright and landed too close to the second upright to take the necessary stride. He bounced with great strength and amazingly cleared the top rail. But he couldn’t get organized in time for the third jump in the combination, and the rails came down. Secret Agent was rattled and knocked the next one down, too.

      Dancer was calm. He knew what he was here to do, and Abby sensed that he was preserving his energy. Either that, or he was too tired from his morning’s shenanigans to move. Abby prayed for the former as she repetitively memorized the course, getting more and more uneasy.

      Beth Underhill rode her big black horse, Monopoly, to the starting gate. He’d been retired, like Dancer, and this was his farewell tour.

      Abby was up next. She was covered with goosebumps and could hardly breathe for the huge weight that seemed to press on her chest. Her toes and fingers were numb. How could she go in like this? She’d fall off for sure. Beth and Monopoly cantered brilliantly around, but Abby wasn’t concentrating. She heard the crowd cheer, but she couldn’t tell what had happened. She wasn’t keeping score anymore.

      Absently, she patted Dancer’s glistening chestnut neck and felt the great strength beneath his coat. He nickered softly, then blew through his nostrils. He’s trying to reassure me, thought Abby, and a tear came unbidden to her eye. She was moved by the great horse’s sensitivity. But it’s a lost cause. I can’t do it. I can’t go in there.

      Dancer somehow knew that his moment was nigh. He slowly began to perform dressage on the spot. Exercising each muscle, he crouched and lifted, arched and stretched, extended and compressed. Abby sat still as he warmed up in this