The Saddle Creek Series 5-Book Bundle. Shelley Peterson

He’d be locked up for years to come. It was likely a servant. A flash of lightning lit up the woods, momentarily blinding her. The following thunder rattled the trees, scaring Dancer and sending him lunging forward. “Okay, Dancer. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

      They sped through the woods and over the fields, up the rise and past the craggy bluffs with the river below. Hilary slowed Dancer as they started into the woods, trotting him through the trees as trunks groaned and branches bent and swayed with the storm.

      “A forest isn’t always the safest place in a storm, but neither are the open fields,” Hilary said aloud to Dancer. She was trying to keep them both calm by talking. “A branch can break off and kill you in the woods, and lightning can strike when you’re the tallest thing around. Right-y-o. I think I’ll shut up before I scare myself to death.”

      Once out of the woods and onto the Wick Farm fields, the ground became treacherous with mud. Hilary slowed Dancer to a trot, and looked around for signs of Abby. The rain continued to pour down, obscuring any possibility of tracks.

      “I wonder what we thought we’d accomplish, Dancer,” said Hilary to the steaming stallion. “We might as well go back and count ourselves lucky to get home safely.”

      Dancer stopped dead. His ears pricked up and his head raised sharply and swung to the right. Hilary felt tension travel throughout his body.

      “Steady, boy.” Dancer spun to the right and stopped again. Abruptly he whinnied loudly and deeply. He listened. A far-off echoing whinny caught Mousie by surprise.

      It came from the old Wick barn. Hilary knew that no animals had been there for years. She heard another whinny, followed by a higher-pitched call. There was definitely more than one horse over there.

      Excited, Hilary strained her eyes, trying to see what Dancer saw across the dark field. Ears alert, Dancer trotted hard through the thick muck toward the abandoned barn, heading directly to the nearby shed.

      Hilary could now make out the heads of two horses looking over the Dutch door. The one on the left was definitely Moon Dancer, with her looks so strikingly like Dancer’s. And that was Moonlight Sonata, for sure, with her fine, dark head and beautiful, dreamy eyes.

      “Good work, Dancer!” She praised him as she slid to the slippery ground. “Bloodhounds have nothing on you.” Hilary led Dancer through the gate up to the Dutch doors. The horses sniffed and blew their introductions.

      “Abby?” called Hilary loudly. No answer. She could see that the horses were dry and untacked. A saddle and a bridle were neatly propped up and a saddle pad was hung to dry. A riding cap and windbreaker confirmed that Abby had arrived with the horses, but she was nowhere to be seen.

      Hilary walked Dancer into the shed, out of the pelting rain and raging wind. At the rear were two narrow stalls where horses could stand. She backed Dancer into one and closed him in securely. He could watch the action but be separate from the mares. She didn’t want any trouble while she searched for Abby.

      Hilary looked outside through the rain, wondering where to begin. A light was on in the barn. She hadn’t seen it when she arrived. As she looked more closely, she saw why. Black-out drapes covered all the windows except the one beside the door.

      3

      THE GHOST

      “DON’T WORRY, ABBY,” reassured Mr. Wick. “He’s been here for years and has never harmed a soul. Which nobody knows, by the way. Don’t let on he’s a friendly ghost, Abby.”

      “Why is there a ghost? How long has he been here? Were there plays in here and all that? Why was the theatre ever closed down, and when? Actually, who is the ghost and how do you know there is one?”

      Mr. Wick chuckled. “One question at a time!”

      “Well, then,” replied Abby seriously. “The first question is about the ghost. Who is it? Or who was it when it was alive? And why did it come here?” Abby was fascinated. She was talking to someone who actually knew a ghost. She wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass her by.

      “You’re still asking more than one question at a time, but I’ll answer anyway,” said Mr. Wick with a smile. “His name is Ambrose Brown and he was a real person. He was an actor who for some reason preferred this theatre to any other. He was absolutely wonderful on stage. He had a commanding presence and played an amazing range of characters.”

      “Did you know Ambrose Brown?”

      “Sure did. He worked here for twenty years, as often as there was a part for him. He loved this stage. Said he wanted to be buried here.”

      Abby’s eyes grew large. “And is he?”

      “No. His family has plots in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. They buried him there.”

      “Is that why he haunts this theatre? Because he wants to be buried here?”

      “Could be. I’ve wondered that myself. But you can’t just dig up a body and move it. There’s a lot of paperwork involved and his next of kin won’t even consider it.”

      “That’s too bad, but it might not help, anyway.”

      “That’s the thing. How are we to know why he’s haunting us?” Mr. Wick’s brow furrowed. “He was devastated when we had to close the theatre down. It may have been the saddest thing that ever happened to him.”

      “Why do you say that?”

      “Because he died on closing night, after the final show.”

      “Really? Can people die of sadness?”

      “I honestly don’t know.”

      Mr. Wick looked so sad himself that Abby changed the subject. “Why did you have to close the theatre?”

      “It wasn’t making enough money to sustain itself. I’m not a rich man and I couldn’t afford to subsidize it.”

      “When was it closed down?” Abby asked, absorbed by the story.

      Mr. Wick scratched his head under his hat. “Must be fifteen years or more. Maybe close to twenty.”

      “And you said the theatre ran for twenty years?”

      “Yup, about that. Those were the days, Abby. I wanted to go into show business myself, you know, when I was a boy.”

      “You?” Abby realized after she spoke how that must have sounded. “I mean, I always thought of you as Farmer Wick, not really showbiz, you know?”

      Mr. Wick laughed, stopped, then laughed again. He laughed so hard, he started to scare Abby. Tears rolled down his face, which had grown quite red. Abby began to worry.

      “Don’t look so, so, so alarmed!” he managed to sputter. “I can’t stop. Oh! Oh! I haven’t had such a good laugh in years. In the theatre days, people who came here were so refreshing, so jolly. We laughed like this all the time. I love actors. They’re mimics, they’re monkeys, they never grow old and cynical. They’re always hoping for the big break, and it’s always coming tomorrow. It’s always Christmas Eve, with big presents ready to open the next day. Oh, Abby, how I miss those days.”

      Abby now feared that the old man would start to cry. She wanted to avoid that altogether. “Tell me why you built this place, forty years ago,” she said.

      “That’s a long story.” Mr. Wick’s eyes misted over and a lovely smile crossed his face. “Gladys always said it was nuts to do it. She was my wife. But since I was a child, I had dreamed of acting in theatre.

      “My father thought I was weird because I was interested in the arts, and tried to beat it out of me. He was a tough old goat, my dad. I gave up to keep the peace in the family. Became a farmer just like Dad.

      “He was