The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

times and bad. For the ability to focus on the positives and lighten up on the negatives. To have the common sense to adjust to each other, making compromises when called for. To never forget what they loved about each other.

      Abby watched in awe. She saw the bond that tied these couples together. Grandmother and granddaughter, generations apart, both in love and both feeling the same intensity of love.

      Maybe the heart didn’t have to get old at the same rate as the body, Abby mused. She knew people her age who were already jaded and apathetic. And the Piersons remained young in spirit and in mind even though their bodies were wearing out.

      She looked over at them. Pete and Laura were dancing to Joy’s wedding selection, arms tightly holding each other, smiles lighting up their faces. Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” reminded everyone how lucky they were to be alive.

      Abby smiled, too. She was happy for everyone. Happy for Hilary and Sandy, starting their life together. Happy for Joy and Robert, who’d found each other after many years apart. Happy for the Piersons, Rory and Christine, her parents, and even Ambrose Brown.

      Hilary and Joy turned to the wedding party, ready to throw their bouquets.

      “One, two, three,” they called in unison. Pulling their arms back, Hilary and her grandmother Joy tossed the flowers with a healthy force, petals floating to the stage floor.

      To her extreme delight, Rosalyn Casey caught Hilary’s bouquet. “I caught it! I caught it! I’m the next to marry!”

      Abby caught Joy’s. She clutched it to her chest. She suddenly realized that she didn’t want to get married in the foreseeable future. She had too much to do, too much to see. And she would make very sure that she married the right man, or she’d never marry at all. She vowed to fulfill her own dreams in life, and consider marriage only when, or if, it was undeniably the thing she wanted.

      Across the stage, Abby waved her thanks to Joy, and grinned at her new friend. Joy smiled back.

      Abby felt a paw on her leg.

      “Cody!” She looked down into her coyote’s intense, imploring grey eyes. “It’ll be hard to find a human who loves me as much as you do.” She knelt and scratched his ears. He was a hero in the community. Every person at the wedding today would have been injured, or worse, if Cody hadn’t disengaged the fuse.

      “How did you get in?” she wondered aloud to her pet. “The doors are all shut.”

      “I let him in, Abby,” said Sam with a wink. “He looked so sad when the pastor screamed at him.”

      He stood in the wings, hands in his suit pockets, head slightly tilted.

      Abby stood and faced him.

      “Dance?” Sam asked.

      Abby nodded. He gently held her hand in his larger one, and placed his strong arm around her waist. She stepped into his embrace and closed her eyes. They danced on the stage of The Stonewick Playhouse to the music of the wedding quartet.

      Cody cocked his head and flicked his tail. Dancer nickered softly.

      SHELLEY PETERSON is the bestselling author of five young adult novels, including Dancer, Abby Malone, Sundancer, and Mystery at Saddle Creek. She was born in London, Ontario, and was trained in Theatre Arts at the Banff School of Performing Arts, Dalhousie University, and the University of Western Ontario. She works as a professional actress, and has more than 100 stage, film, and television credits to her name. Peterson has had a lifelong love of animals big and small, with a particular interest in horses. She divides her time between Toronto and Fox Ridge, a horse farm in the Caledon hills, which she shares with her husband, three children and the family dog. Stagestruck is her third novel.

       To David, as always and to my own Sundancer, who didn’t have a Bird to tell his story to.

      PROLOGUE

      July had been lazy and hot, and August started out the same. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against a gate. On it, a big grey horse jumped over the words “Saddle Creek Farm.” The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken.

      Suddenly, the stillness of that Friday afternoon was shattered by the distant roar of a big engine. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. Then, the sharp, unmistakable sound of steel against steel. Thump, crash, thump, crash. Relentless, powerful, steady. The rhythmical beat continued, ever louder as the big rig neared.

      A large navy-blue horse trailer turned into the Saddle Creek driveway in a cloud of dust. “Owens Enterprises” was boldly painted in gold lettering along the shiny new aluminum sides.

      The furious pounding increased as the truck stopped in front of the century red-brick farmhouse with green door and shutters. Two scowling men stepped out of the vehicle and strode around to the back of the van. One carried a long whip, the other a sturdy broom.

      The man with the broom dropped the ramp while the one with the whip prepared to enter the van. Without warning, a magnificent, lathered chestnut horse shot backward off the trailer and shoved both men aside. A broken leather lead shank dangled from his torn halter.

      Now the muscular, haughty creature stood braced and prepared to fight, like a heavyweight champion in the middle of the ring. With nostrils flared he snorted loudly. His sleek, sweat-drenched body vibrated with energy. His delicate ears were pricked to catch all sounds. His intelligent dark eyes were intense, his classic head alert to any threat.

      The men circled him menacingly. Loudly, they cursed their bad luck at being assigned to deliver this dangerous and ornery horse. Swearing at the recalcitrant animal, the men moved in closer. They cornered him, using a sturdy oak rail fence and the horse trailer as barriers. The horse tossed his fiery mane. He shook his head wildly, which sent remnants of leather flying. Vigorously he pawed the gravel driveway, then sniffed the air with suspicion. Neck arched and tail high, he spun to face every direction in turn, looking for a way out.

      To humble him, the one man snapped his long whip hard across the horse’s flank, leaving a bleeding welt. As the trapped creature spun to face his attacker, the other smacked him across the head with the broom, following through with such a whack that for a moment the animal was stunned. He staggered, dazed. The whip came down again, whoosh, landing across his back and tearing the flesh over his kidneys. The broom was raised to strike his face.

      As the man with the whip prepared to throw a rope over his head, the mighty chestnut got his bearings. He bucked, twisted, and shot out a double-barrelled kick, missing his targets by inches.

      I have nowhere to go, nothing to lose.

      The men hollered their outrage. The horse assessed his options and made his decision. He would not be caught. From a standstill, he rocked back on his haunches and effortlessly sprang over the solid four-rail fence into the front paddock.

      With cat-like agility, he spun as he landed then defiantly stared at the men. He raised his head high and whinnied with ear-piercing intensity. Then, he turned his back, kicked out dismissively, and ran off to stake out his chosen territory. Bucking and rearing and prancing and diving, the fearsome chestnut raced around his new domain. He leaped and dove and kicked the sky. The earth trembled as he pounded the inside perimeter of the paddock.

      The