Gold Medal Horse (6 page)

A huge semitruck blared its horn. The horse leaped onto the grass median, ran in place for a stride, then dashed onto the other half of the highway. A passenger car slammed on its brakes, swerving around the horse. The horse raised its head and squealed desperately.

“He’ll be killed!” Carole screamed.

T
HE GRAY-WHITE HORSE
managed to dart onto the shoulder of the highway. He paused, muscles trembling, then lifted his head and whinnied a high, loud squeal. He took a few determined cantering strides down the tall grassy bank, measured the white fence of the horse park with his eyes, and gathered himself to jump it.

The board fence was not very big—maybe four feet high but skinny and straightforward, not like the wide cross-country fences. The horse was tall, and from the expression on his face and the way he gathered himself together, the girls knew he was putting everything he had into jumping the fence. Carole swallowed hard.

The horse thrust himself into the air. Despite his efforts, he didn’t jump high enough to clear the top board. His knees crashed against it. The board broke, and the horse stumbled into the field, right in front of their startled trail horses. He picked himself up and began to run away from them, straight for the stables!

“Stop him!” the trail guide yelled. They all knew how dangerous it would be for a loose horse to gallop into the crowd around the barn. Ahead of the galloping horse were people, cars, champion horses—and the panicked horse could trample them all. He could be hurt, too.

Wheeling their pluggy trail horses, they took off after the renegade. Lisa saw the way the fleeing horse stretched himself into a full gallop, and her heart sank. He reminded her of Prancer—of a Thoroughbred, a horse bred for racing. If that was true, they’d never catch him, not on these old, plain trail horses.

She leaned forward and urged her horse on with her heels. Beside her, Carole crouched low over the black mane of her bay. Stevie’s pinto was snorting. Lisa’s horse picked up speed and galloped with real enthusiasm. She felt his hooves thud against the ground. The ground became a blur.

And the renegade was slow. Despite his elegant gait and his long, ground-swallowing stride, the girls began to close the gap between their horses and him.

“Hi-yi-yi!” Stevie shouted encouragement to her mount. She wished she had a rope so that she could lasso the white horse the way she’d learned to on Kate’s ranch. Within a few more strides they’d reached the horse and were galloping alongside him, but Stevie didn’t see how they were ever going to stop him.

Carole wasn’t sure, either. She tried the only thing she could think of: She rode close to the gray-white horse, grabbed his long mane with one hand, and said, “Whoa,” in a loud, firm voice. To her surprise, it worked. The horse stopped as suddenly as he’d started.

All four of them, including the guide, brought the trail horses to a halt. “I’ll be,” the guide said to Carole. “I didn’t think that would work. For a runaway, he’s sure obedient!”

Carole nodded. They surrounded the horse. He stood politely, but he continued to look in the direction of the stables, and he raised his head and trumpeted again. He sounded so sad and so full of longing that she felt a great lump of sorrow rise in her throat. The poor horse!

Carole slipped off her mount and handed her reins to the guide. Talking quietly to the gray-white horse, she checked him over from head to toe. The more she looked, the more depressed she felt. One of the horse’s knees had been scratched by the fence board, but other than that he
didn’t seem to have been hurt during his wild trip across the highway.

However, it was obvious that he’d been hurt many times in the past. “Look at his legs,” Carole whispered. They bore the marks of several old injuries: His back tendons, which should have been tight and smooth, were marred by several ugly bumps. “He’s got scars all over him. No wonder he couldn’t jump high or run fast.”

“Look at his shoulders,” Lisa said. “He looks just like Prancer. I’m sure he’s a Thoroughbred.”

“Look at his face,” Stevie said. “He’s quality. I bet he used to be a really good horse. He looks old, though—and he’s so skinny!”

“He must be old,” the guide interjected. “See how his face bones stand out and his back sways?”

“He’s sweet,” Carole added, rubbing the horse’s nose. “He stopped when we asked him to, even though he wanted to run.” She ran her hand down the horse’s neck. There were scars there, too, and more on his flanks that looked as if they’d been caused by a sharp whip or spurs. “Poor baby. What should we do with him?”

“He came from across the highway,” Stevie said. “I think we should take him back there and try to find his owner.”

“His owner!” Carole sounded indignant. “Look at him! He’s
too
skinny, too, and he sure doesn’t look like anyone’s
been taking good care of him. In fact”—Carole looked the horse up and down—“I’d say that he’s been abused. I don’t think we should take him back to his owner! I think we should take care of him ourselves!”

Stevie looked at Carole thoughtfully. “Lisa?” she asked. “What do you think we should do?”

Lisa looked at the horse sadly. His sorry condition reminded her a little of Sal, an abused horse she had once met. Sal had been rescued, but he had died because of the horrible treatment he’d received and because he hadn’t gotten help until it was too late. “I would never want to put him back in a bad situation,” she said slowly, “and I’m sure not keen about going across that highway. But, Carole, he doesn’t look that bad. None of his scars are fresh. I don’t think we can judge this horse’s owner without meeting him or her.”

Lisa made up her mind. “Here’s what I think we should do: take the horse back, and talk to its owner. If we think the horse isn’t getting good care, we can tell Dorothy and Nigel, and they’ll help us get help for it.”

Even the guide agreed with Lisa’s plan. Carole took off her belt and looped it around the white horse’s neck. The others took off their belts, too, and Carole buckled them together to make a sort of lead rope. Carole remounted, and they led the horse back to the break in the rail fence. The white horse looked anxiously over his shoulder a few
times, but he followed without giving them trouble. “Such a good boy,” Carole murmured to him.

They stood before the gap in the fence. With the top rail broken, the fence was about two and a half feet high.

“Do the horses know how to jump?” Carole asked the guide.

Stevie looked determined. “We’ll find out.”

The guide laughed. “I don’t think so,” she said. “These horses can’t leave the park. Let me hold them, and you guys can walk our buddy across the road. I’ll wait for you here.”

Carole climbed over the broken portion of the fence, still holding the gray-white horse’s lead, and clucked to him encouragingly. The horse looked over his shoulder and whinnied sadly once again, then tucked himself together and jumped the fence from a halt. This time he cleared it. The girls waited for a break in the traffic, then quickly led him across the road.

On the far shoulder they stopped in surprise. They’d never noticed it, but the other side of the highway was dotted with small pastures, too, just like the horse park. Only here the fences were made of sturdy brown rails, and the buildings behind them looked plain and utilitarian. A number of horses grazed in the pastures, and they raised their heads curiously to look at the gray-white horse. Before Stevie and Carole could do more than look at the
horses in return, a red Jeep tore down the driveway, screeching to a halt right in front of them.

“You got him!” A man in a brown leather jacket exclaimed in relief as he parked the Jeep and got out. “Is he okay?” He took the lead from Carole and ran his hands quickly over the gray-white horse’s legs. Then he looked at the three girls. “Are
you
okay? What happened?”

They described the horse’s jump, chase, and capture. “I’m grateful to you,” the man said. “You did exactly the right thing. I’m Dr. Lawrence. I’m a vet, and this is the Kentucky Equine Hospital. Ghost here is one of our patients.”

The girls shook his hand and introduced themselves. “ ‘Ghost’ is a good name for him,” Stevie said. “He looks like a ghost—tall and white and thin.”

Dr. Lawrence looked thoughtful. “Yes, that’s why I named him that,” he said. “I have no idea what his real name is. He’s a registered Thoroughbred, but he’s so old that the numbers on his lip tattoo have faded and you can’t read them. I don’t know where he came from originally. He was a rescue from the SPCA.”

Carole’s eyes sparked angrily. “I knew he’d been treated badly!”

Dr. Lawrence nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. The man from whom we got him hadn’t owned him long, however. Most of Ghost’s injuries look old, and many of them
aren’t actually the result of poor care. He just got hurt, probably—like a football player blowing out his knee.”

Dr. Lawrence began leading Ghost back to the hospital building, and the girls followed. “This horse has been pacing up and down the pasture, looking at the horse park, ever since he got here,” he told them. “Today he finally jumped his fence. I keep thinking maybe he’s an old event horse trying to get back to competition. Maybe he remembers Rolex.”

Carole liked the idea but doubted it was true. “That sounds too much like a fairy tale,” she said. “But he did try awfully hard to jump into the park—you could tell he tried as hard as he could.”

“He’s got a lot of spirit, but he’s still obedient,” Stevie added. “He stopped as soon as we asked him to. He’s a good horse.”

Dr. Lawrence led the horse through a large door into a stable with large stalls. “We’ll keep him inside and keep an eye on him,” he said. He gave the horse a few flakes of hay, and soon the horse was munching happily. “He’s a mystery, that’s for sure,” Dr. Lawrence said. “He’s not a young horse—see how his gray coat has faded to almost pure white?—and with those legs he’ll always be somewhat lame. I’m sure he’s had a hard life, but I agree with you. I think he’s a good horse.”

Carole ran her hand through the horse’s long mane.
“What happens to him now?” she asked. “Can he stay here?”

Dr. Lawrence sighed. “Not permanently, but certainly for a while longer,” he said. “I’d like to find a good retirement home for him, but it won’t be easy. Someone will have to take this old boy out of the goodness of his or her heart.” Dr. Lawrence shook his head sadly.

“Our friends Dorothy and Nigel know a lot of riders,” Stevie suggested. “Maybe they’d know someone who could take him. We’ll ask.” She patted Ghost’s neck. “He sure is a nice horse.”

“If you have any ideas for a home, call me,” Dr. Lawrence said gratefully. “I really appreciate your rescuing and returning him. Thank you.”

“Well,” Carole said to Lisa as they walked back, “you were right—he’s in good hands now.”

“Now,” Stevie admitted, “but not forever. Ghost needs a permanent home.”

Carole nodded, frowning. They’d have to think of something.

“B
UT
I
THOUGHT
it was called a three-day event,” Stevie protested. “Why is Nigel’s dressage test on Thursday, when cross-country doesn’t start until Saturday and the show jumping is on Sunday?”

“That makes it a four-day event,” Lisa said. They were on their way to Rolex with Dorothy. Nigel had already gone ahead to get ready for the first phase of the competition.

“There are too many competitors,” Dorothy said. “To make the competition fair, all of the horses have to be judged by the same dressage judges, and they can’t fit
them all into a single day, so they spread the tests over two days. It doesn’t matter—Southwood still has to be obedient and supple today and bold over cross-country on Saturday.”

“And show jumping on Sunday,” Carole supplied.

“Yes.” Dorothy nodded. “More than anything else, the show jumping proves that the horse hasn’t been completely worn out from cross-country day.”

“Will Nigel do well in dressage?” Stevie asked as they turned into the park and Dorothy flashed her pass at the man at the gate. “I mean, will Southwood?”

“I think so,” Dorothy said. “You never know—something could happen to upset him. But I don’t think it will.”