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    A Horse to Love
    A Horse to Love
    A Horse to Love
    Ebook132 pages1 hour

    A Horse to Love

    By Nancy Springer

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    About this ebook

    Caring for a horse isn’t always a picnic

    Erin is thrilled when her parents agree to buy her a horse. She doesn’t even mind holding up her end of the agreement—keeping up her grades, mending clothes, and helping out with chores around the house. She’ll do anything as long as it means having a horse of her very own.

    But owning a horse is nothing like Erin imagined. The old mare whom she names Spindrift can be grouchy and ill tempered. And having a horse means lots of extra responsibility—feeding her, grooming her, training her. Luckily, Erin’s aunt Lexie knows a thing or two about horses and is willing to show her the ropes.  But even Aunt Lexie can’t keep Erin out of trouble entirely.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateDec 30, 2014
    ISBN9781497688759
    A Horse to Love
    Author

    Nancy Springer

    Nancy Springer is the award-winning author of more than fifty books, including the Enola Holmes and Rowan Hood series and a plethora of novels for all ages, spanning fantasy, mystery, magic realism, and more. She received the James Tiptree, Jr. Award for Larque on the Wing and the Edgar Award for her juvenile mysteries Toughing It and Looking for Jamie Bridger, and she has been nominated for numerous other honors. Springer currently lives in the Florida Panhandle, where she rescues feral cats and enjoys the vibrant wildlife of the wetlands.

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      Book preview

      A Horse to Love - Nancy Springer

      Chapter One

      Oh, wow, she’s pretty! Erin whispered.

      Don’t get your hopes up, Aunt Lexie warned her.

      Erin knew better than to get her hopes up. The last horse had been a nag with a Roman nose and a goose rump and the name, really and truly, of Pig-poop. All of which would have been okay if it had been willing, eager to please, but it was not.

      Pretty is as pretty does, Aunt Lexie added darkly.

      The horse before that had been a pretty chestnut gelding with a cream-colored mane and tail, but he had been too coltish, too much of a handful for a young rider. The horse before that had been a nice black mare that Erin’s father might have bought except that the owner, while showing off her beautiful canter, had decided not to sell her after all. The horse before that had been a dark bay that was nippy and spoiled.

      This one, Erin thought, was prettier than any of them.

      She looks kind of fat, said Erin’s father doubtfully. Is she—uh—pregnant?

      Hay belly, said Aunt Lexie. Needs to be worked.

      The mare had been out to pasture, and the man was leading her toward them. Grade mare, gray, 10 yrs, the ad in the paper had read, meaning just a regular horse, not registered anything. Erin’s father had been singing The Old Gray Mare in the car all the way over. Slumped in the backseat of Aunt Lexie’s Blazer, Erin had come to expect a sway-backed nag built like a plow horse. But the little mare walking toward them was more white than gray, with a pretty white face, a dark nose, and big dark eyes that made Erin think of a deer’s eyes. Her small white ears were pricked forward, her forelock lying gray between them, and her head nodded at every step. The man led her up to them and turned her sideways so that they could look at her.

      Aunt Lexie chewed at the stem of her pipe, her eyes hard and narrow as she studied the mare. She was not Erin’s aunt, not really, but the woman who lived half a mile down the road and raised Morgan horses. The other kids in the neighborhood knew her as Mrs. Bromer (or Old Baggy Bromer, among themselves), and knew that she didn’t let anyone touch her horses. When she had said to Erin, You may call me Aunt Lexie, Erin had understood at once that the Aunt was required. Erin called all her real aunts and uncles by their first names, but Alexandra Elizabeth Bromer was older than them and not to be messed with.

      Erin tore her gaze away from the mare’s pretty head—Aunt Lexie said that only a novice looked first at a horse’s head. No feet, no horse. She studied the mare’s hooves and legs. They were charcoal gray, like her nose, and Erin thought they looked okay, straight and solid. She would not find out what Aunt Lexie thought until afterward, on the way home. It would be a bad idea to say anything about good legs in front of the owner. He might raise the price. Erin wanted to go over and pat the mare, but she was not supposed to seem too eager.

      Just lift her feet for us, Aunt Lexie ordered the man in a bored tone.

      One of her many rules: Never do anything with a horse that the owner won’t do first. If the mare tried to kick the man, that would be the end of it. He tied her to a fence post by the halter rope and lifted one forefoot—no problem. He lifted the feet one by one, and the mare did not seem to mind at all.

      All right, Erin, you do it, said Aunt Lexie.

      At last, a chance to get her hands on her.…

      With the adult eyes watching, Erin remembered to hold back her smile, to walk, not run, over to the mare. But she took her time once she got there, patting the horse on the neck, looking into her big, dark eye, speaking softly.

      Hi, girl. How are you today?

      The mare looked back without blinking. Not a kind eye, Erin decided, but at least a soft eye. The large, barlike pupil glinted blue in the sunlight. Erin turned and bent, ran her hand down the foreleg and tugged at the front foot. After a moment it came up. She moved to the hind foot, listening for the tail swish that might come before a kick, feeling for tightness in the horse’s muscles. All was well, and the mare gave the foot.

      Should I saddle her up? the man asked.

      Might as well, said Aunt Lexie, taking her pipe out of her mouth to yawn.

      They followed the man into the remodeled cow barn that served as a stable. Erin and her father knew the routine by now.

      She bite? Mr. Calahan asked.

      Nope.

      Kick?

      Nope.

      Spook?

      Nope. Well, I mean, there ain’t none of them won’t spook at something. But I ain’t knowed her to spook hard. We ride her along the road, and she don’t mind cars or trucks or dogs.

      Motorcycles? asked Aunt Lexie with a hard look. Gunshots?

      No problem.

      Why are you selling her? asked Mr. Calahan, and the man shrugged.

      Too many horses.

      That certainly could be true. Nearly every stall in the barn had a horse in it, or a pony, all shapes and sizes and colors of horses and ponies, and there were more in the pasture. Erin, who was used to the bay and chestnut Morgans at Aunt Lexie’s, looked at roans, sorrels, Appaloosas with widened eyes.

      I bought her for my granddaughter, for pole bending, the man offered, but she ain’t fast enough for that. So now I bought that one there. He pointed toward a handsome pinto that was kicking at its stall. When Erin glanced toward it, the pinto pinned back its ears and bared its teeth at her.

      She quickly turned back to the old gray mare and watched, along with Aunt Lexie, as the owner put on a western saddle and a bridle with a western bit and clip-on reins. The mare stood quietly as he tightened the cinch, and she took the bit willingly.

      Want to try her, missie? the man offered when he had led the horse out. Her name’s Bianca.

      "You ride her out," said Aunt Lexie before Erin could reply.

      The man heaved himself into the saddle—the mare moved forward a few steps, Erin noticed, but no wonder, as he had jabbed his toe into her ribs. He took her out along the road at a rapid walk, brought her back at the trot. Bianca nodded her head at the walk, stuck her nose out high at the trot. The owner stopped her in front of Erin.

      Want to try her now?

      Erin glanced at Aunt Lexie, who nodded. But I’ve never ridden western, Erin said.

      Just sit to the trot.

      Nothing to it, the man told her. He boosted her up and handed her the reins.

      Wait, Aunt Lexie said. Those stirrups are way too long. But the horse had already started off. Erin sat watching the eager white ears in front of her. She felt secure in the big saddle, even though her feet were swinging. She had ridden without stirrups before. Reins in both hands, as she had been taught, she let the horse walk out to the end of the driveway, nudged with her right leg and tightened her fingers on the right rein to turn her onto the shoulder of the road.…

      The mare tossed her head up and fought the bit, dancing sideways.

      Neck rein her! the owner hollered. She rides western!

      Hold both reins in one hand! Aunt Lexie shouted.

      Erin had already let go with her left hand. But her right hand missed catching hold of the other rein, somehow, in her hurry, and these reins did not loop over the horse’s neck like the English ones she was used to. Each was separate from the other. And the one she had dropped slithered down and slapped the dirt beneath the mare’s head.

      Whoa! Erin exclaimed, tugging harder on her one remaining rein. The mare shook her head and fussed, prancing nearly onto the road.

      Oh, no, Erin moaned. Bianca, please whoa. There’s traffic coming. Scared, she grabbed at the saddle horn with her free hand.

      Bianca stepped on the trailing rein and flung her head up sharply. Erin could see the flash of white in a frightened eye. Helpless, she sat clutching the saddle horn, not knowing what to expect next. She did not dare to pull on her rein again. Suppose Bianca fought her way even farther onto the road? But the mare did not move. Head up, ears tilted at a troubled sideward angle, she stood stone-still as a pickup truck and three motorcycles whizzed past her nose with a bone-jarring racket. By the time they were gone, Aunt Lexie had reached Erin’s side, and so had her father and the horse owner.

      Back, girl, he said to Bianca, taking her by the cheek strap of the bridle. The mare stepped back, and the man picked up the trailing rein.

      She has good sense, Aunt Lexie remarked, patting Bianca on the neck to calm her.

      Here you go, missie. I’ll tie ’em together for you. The man knotted the reins into one and handed them to Erin. Just push ’em against her neck, whichever way you want to go.

      Erin sat choking back an urge to cry. She felt stupid and embarrassed; she was frightened, and she knew she wanted this pretty little mare. If she wanted her, she had to ride her. Good sense, Aunt Lexie had said, right in front of the owner.…

      Taking a deep breath, Erin squeezed with her legs, lifted the reins with one hand and clicked her tongue. Neck reining,

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