Sundancer. Shelley Peterson
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 engine of the big rig roared to life. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived. As the noise receeded into the distance, the dust settled, and a little wren resumed his song.
Nothing at Saddle Creek Farm would ever be the same.
1
THE NEW HORSE
It is time to tell my story.
I am big and I am beautiful. When I run, I run like the wind, and when I jump, I jump like a deer. I am a winner.
Alone in the paddock, the sleek chestnut gelding grazed. He methodically trimmed the blades of grass close to the ground, left to right, right to left, as far as his neck could reach. He took a step and began again. Row after row. Step after step.
A woman and a girl leaned on the fence and observed him closely, an old yellow dog at their feet. A quiet breeze ruffled their hair and gently rippled their clothing. The woman, fortyish, lean and sinewy, smoothed her fair hair from her face and muttered, “What the deuce are we going to do with him, Bird?”
The girl said nothing. The hot August air blew her unkempt hair into her eyes, and she made no effort to remove it. Her arms were skinny and brown with the sun.
He’ll be my horse, she thought. No one else’s.
Tell me your story, handsome. She aimed the thought in the horse’s direction. No response.
The horse had been delivered earlier, while Bird and Hannah were out checking the fences. Bird wished she’d been there to see his arrival. Their vet, Paul Daniels, had practically begged Hannah to take him in. A favour, he’d said. An underdog in need. Bird could relate.
Lazily, the horse took another step and began a new line of grass. He casually swished his tail to rid himself of flies.
Bird studied the horse closely. He was extraordinarily handsome. Sixteen hands, two inches tall, she guessed. His legs were long, fine, strong, and straight, correct in every way. His neck was elegant, with a graceful curve along the top line of his body, connecting his delicate ears to his generous withers and across the gentle slope of his back to his perfectly rounded haunches. Every movement he made was graceful, and his coat gleamed a fiery copper.
And yet, something about this horse was not quite right. Underneath his calm exterior, as he mechanically grazed and pointedly ignored them, was a nervousness, a jumpiness, that Bird found disquieting. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust anyone.
“Poetry, eh, Bird?” said Hannah. “He’s like poetry in motion.” Hannah sighed and turned back to the house. “Don’t be too long, hon. Supper’s almost ready.” She stopped for a moment, waiting for a reaction. There was none. Alberta, nicknamed Bird, continued to stare at the animal.
“Don’t get any ideas, young lady. Nobody can handle this horse. That’s why he ended up here. Saddle Creek: farm of last resort. I’ll add that to our sign, if I ever get around to fixing it.”
Hannah Bradley shot one last glance at the new horse and headed for the house. She left the girl, the dog, and the horse alone.
Now, finally, the gelding raised his eyes to meet the girl’s. They assessed each other, neither one making a move.
Talk to me, beautiful horse. Tell me your story. Bird willed the big horse to respond. I know you can hear me.
The horse simply stared.
Why are you so suspicious? You have nothing to fear with me.
The horse didn’t so much as blink. He dropped his head back to the grass and continued grazing. Bird crouched down on her heels and began to rock gently. Although she was growing fast, Bird was still small for her thirteen years. She used that to her advantage now, as she manoeuvred her body under the lowest rail of the fence. She inched her bottom over to the post and quietly leaned her back against it.
In spite of spindly legs and oversized ears, Bird was pretty in her own unique way. Deep sable eyes graced her elfin face. Often they were dull