The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

in the stands.

      Not to be upstaged, Dancer picked up the trophy again with his nose and comically began to exit the ring at a trot. Abby and Hilary chased him out, followed by the other horses and their exuberant riders.

      This was a show to remember.

      Abby and Hilary were happily getting Dancer packed up and ready to leave, still laughing about his antics with the cup, when a grim-faced Pete arrived at the stall.

      “They let him go,” he said. “There’s no sign of a cane.”

      17

      STAGESTRUCK

      IT WAS WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON. Abby Malone sat on her porch rubbing Cody’s ears. The Invitational was over and she had nothing to do.

      All her friends were deeply involved with Pinocchio. Tomorrow was opening night. Rehearsals had intensified all week as the opening loomed. There was one rehearsal this afternoon, and another tonight. Tomorrow, they’d perform in front of a small, live audience in the afternoon, before the big event.

      Joy had moved in with Christine and Rory. Abby missed her. Hilary and Sandy were working in Toronto at the museum. Abby missed them, too.

      Moonie was unable to do much more than light work in her present condition. Leggy’s training took only an hour a day, which Abby did every morning, and Dancer was resting this week, tired but content. He grazed alongside Henry, making no move to leave his field.

      The chief of police had talked to Abby after the Invitational. Mack Jones assured her that he believed what she’d told him, but so far the police hadn’t been able to find the cane. Owens denied owning such a weapon, and complained that Abby had made it all up and that the security people had handled him roughly. He was calling his lawyers. The police had put surveillance on Dancer, however, on the strength of Abby’s statement. A bored young officer sat in a marked car at the end of the Hogscroft lane, reading and doing crossword puzzles.

      Abby sighed. Cody put his paw on her knee.

      “Thanks, Cody. You’re right, I need cheering up.” She looked out into the field and studied her mares. Moonie, sleek and healthy, grazed diligently, missing no blade of grass in her path. She had an elegant line and a lovely face. Her glossy, dark bay body and long black legs cut a fine silhouette.

      Beside her, the spunky Moon Dancer lifted her head and looked alertly around. Abby smiled. “You’re a troublemaker, Leggy,” she said aloud. The two-year-old was well built with a deep chest, short back, graceful neck, and long legs. Her chestnut coat glimmered in the afternoon sun. The star on her forehead was the only white she sported.

      Robert Wick’s truck drove up the lane. Abby waved hello, then realized the driver was Joy Featherstone.

      Joy caught sight of her and slammed on the brakes, spraying gravel.

      Abby rose from the steps. This was unusual behaviour. “Mrs. Featherstone!” she called, running to the driver’s side window. “Is anything wrong?”

      Joy smiled. “Nothing, now that I’ve found you. I really hope you can do us another favour.”

      Abby blinked. “A favour? Sure. Whatever you want.”

      “Are you busy this afternoon?”

      “No. I’m bored to death.”

      “Wonderful! Hop in the truck. You’re the Blue-Winged Fairy!”

      After hurriedly leaving a note for her mom, Abby climbed into the truck beside Joy. On the way to the theatre, Joy explained the situation.

      “How did it happen, Mrs. Featherstone?”

      “Nobody was anywhere near, but Margaret Small insists that she was pushed.”

      “Pushed?”

      “Yes. And a firm push. Enough to send her over the lip and down the stairs next to the orchestra pit.”

      “She was lucky she didn’t fall down there,” said Abby.

      “You better believe it. She would’ve had more than a sprained ankle and a broken wrist.”

      “Poor woman.” Abby shook her head and grimaced. “When did it happen?”

      “This afternoon, just before she made her first entrance.”

      “And nobody saw?”

      “No. Everyone was either on stage, backstage, or in their place, waiting to go on. Robert and I were talking to the lighting man. That’s the odd thing, Abby. Nobody was there to push her, not that anybody would. No matter how much she riled people.”

      Abby tried to squelch the joyful feelings bubbling up inside her chest. It was a painful accident, and she should appear sympathetic. She didn’t want Mrs. Featherstone to think her callous.

      “Well, aren’t you happy to be back in the play?” Joy asked.

      Abby’s smile broke loose. “Yes!” she emphasized. “I’m absolutely, positively, one hundred percent happy!”

      “That’s good,” Joy said. “Because you have a lot to catch up on in a very short time.”

      “I won’t let you down.”

      Opening night. It was Thursday evening at five minutes to seven. Abby nervously completed her makeup. Dusting the blue sprinkles over her face and arms, careful not to get them in her eyes, she wondered at her compulsion to be early. Nobody else had arrived.

      She had indeed worked night and day to get herself prepared. After the two rehearsals the day before, Abby had gone home and studied the play with fierce concentration. Analyzing characters and their relationships to other characters, making note of action and reaction, charting the story development, Abby worked late into the night. Finally at three o’clock in the morning, lines solid and entrances nailed, she’d fallen asleep in a heap on her bed. At four she’d awoken to get into her night gown and brush her teeth.

      That morning before the final dress rehearsal, after going over her lines for the umpteenth time, Abby had written opening night notes to every actor in the show. She’d found greeting cards with a picture of an open-mouthed shark on the front. It seemed as close as she’d get to a dogfish. Inside were the words, “Bite Me!”

      She’d added, “If you’re not a brilliant Geppetto,” to the one for Mr. Farrow, and “If you remember your lines,” on Lucy’s, who didn’t have any. Abby had come up with appropriate comments for all the actors, but her favourite was Sam’s. After the “Bite Me!”, she’d written, “But not too hard, you foxy thing.” She hoped to watch his face when he opened it.

      Abby had placed the cards on the actors’ dressing tables, and pinned them to the costumes of those who used the big dressing room.

      A rustle of air, then a sneeze, snapped her to attention. Ambrose Brown materialized behind her, dressed as a liveried footman with a powdered wig. He sneezed again. “I’ll never get used to the powder,” he snorted with a snobby-sounding English accent.

      “Can’t you just wear a white wig?” asked Abby.

      “It would never do. It wouldn’t be authentic. I couldn’t feel the part. An actor must walk the walk if he wants to talk the talk. Ah . . . ah . . . ah . . . choo!”

      “Or sneeze the sneeze,” Abby added.

      “Don’t be impertinent. There’s a lot you have to learn about the profession, and you’re lucky that I take the time to teach you.” He strutted like a peacock.

      “Where have you been, Ambrose? I’ve been back since yesterday, and I haven’t seen you ’til now.”

      “I’m not at your beck and call, I’ll have you know,” he said down his nose.

      “I’m not sure I like you very much in this role,” said Abby.

      “Quite as it should be! Pompous is good, as