Sonata lowered her head to nibble the tender spring grass under the winter-coarsened weeds. Abby patted her sleek dark neck and studied the wild beauty of the scene below. The wind was coming up. Treetops swayed and tall reeds waved. She inhaled deeply and savoured the smells of water, earth, and pine. The air around her tingled with edgy energy, signalling the onset of an electrical storm.
“There’s quite a storm coming, Moonie,” she said to her trusted companion.
Suddenly, a two-year-old filly raced up the rise at full speed.
“Whoa there, Leggy!” Abby yelled authoritatively. The filly stopped inches from the edge of the ridge, reared up, then stamped her front hoof impatiently.
“You little brat,” seethed Abby. “You scared me!”
Abby reached for the rope that dangled from the filly’s halter and grabbed it firmly. “That’s the last time I’m taking you with us, no matter how much of a fuss you make.” As an act of kindness, Abby had decided to bring the anxious Leggy along for the ride, but no sooner were they off the road than she’d bolted in search of her own excitement. Now the scheming look in the young horse’s eyes made Abby glare back at her in exasperation.
Moonie had given birth to this beautiful creature two years earlier, and Abby had proudly named her Moon Dancer. The youngster was already taller than her mother and still growing rapidly. The exceptional length of her legs had given her the stable name of “Leggy,” and it had stuck. Her glossy chestnut coat was the exact shade of her father’s, and her spirit was rebellious. “You’re your father’s daughter, all right,” Abby observed aloud.
Leggy’s sire was Dancer, the local legend. He and his owner, Hilary “Mousie” James, had won countless jumping competitions. They’d been an unbeatable team until the cruel and savage attack five years earlier by Samuel Owens. Owens had quickly been judged legally insane and sent to the mental hospital at Penetang. That Dancer had survived at all was remarkable, but he had never competed again. He was now retired at Hogscroft, the James’ farm.
Abby sniffed the air; they were minutes away from a downpour. “Okay, ladies, gotta get back.” The light was fading fast. Trying to radiate calmness for the horses’ sakes, she gently pulled Moonie’s head up from the grass and turned her around. Leggy followed on the lead line but hopped around nervously, afraid of the changing weather. Just then, something dark and furry darted out from the trees.
“Hey, Cody!” A small grey coyote looked up at Abby adoringly, eyes shining. This girl was his best friend.
Abby returned his gaze. She’d found him when he was only a few days old and dying of starvation. She’d fed him a special mother’s milk substitution every few hours until he could eat on his own. Cody survived and grew into a small but healthy adult. Abby constantly marvelled at his intelligence and ingenuity. He was completely devoted to her; her shadow.
Abby, Moonie, Leggy, and Cody headed toward home. Old trees groaned and strained against the wind as the little group trotted down the path through the woods. Overhead, branches blocked what little remained of the light, leaving them to ride in near darkness. As they came out of the woods into a hay field, a strong gust of wind hit them. Angry-looking clouds were rapidly closing in, and the sky was turning black.
The rain started suddenly. Stinging, cold, driving rain. The wind howled, and Leggy lurched away in fear. “Leggy, honey, don’t you worry, we’ll be home soon.”
A long serpent’s tongue of lightning shot from the heavens in front of them, followed by a deafening, horrifying crack. Abby counted five seconds between lightning and thunder, which meant that the lightning had struck approximately one mile away, very close to home.
They were now galloping across the Wick property. It had been for sale for over two years, and the place was neglected and overgrown. The house had long been empty and there were “No Trespassing” signs posted on trees. The barn was said to be haunted, and a shiver went down Abby’s spine at the sight of its dark looming shape.
Cody, nose down and tail flat, turned sharply and made a beeline toward the barn. Abby called after him, but the coyote didn’t look back.
A streak of electricity lit up the sky and thunder crashed simultaneously. Moonie reared in fright, and Leggy squealed a high-pitched alarm. The rain was coming down hard, pelting them mercilessly. Abby made a quick decision. She turned Moonie and Leggy toward the barn, following Cody’s lead.
The barn was a huge weather-beaten structure, about a hundred and fifty years old. The main floor was fieldstone, and faded grey barn boards housed the hayloft. Through the curtain of rain, Abby noticed a more solid shed, which stood on the other side of the farm lane. Dutch doors opened to a small paddock, and Abby thought that it must once have been shelter for horses. Since it was accessible and looked far safer than the barn, Abby headed for the shed.
Young trees were now bending with the force of the gale, and the rain came down in sheets. Abby’s face stung, and her hands were red and cold. Carefully, the group made its way through soggy, rotten debris and tangled vines. At the paddock gate Abby dismounted and threw the reins over Moonie’s neck. She led the two mares through the rusted gate and hurried to open the Dutch doors.
A hinge had come loose from one of the top doors, and it hung askew. Abby pulled it open and reached over the bottom door to feel for a latch. The horses were restless, eager for shelter. “Quiet, you two, I’m trying my hardest.” Abby found a hook and released it. She pushed. The door was stuck.
Cody, who’d been patiently waiting at her side, leapt over the bottom door into the shed and began digging. Looking over, Abby saw that manure and old straw were blocking the door.
Abby went back and closed the paddock gate, then ran up Moonie’s stirrups and tucked her reins under a stirrup leather so she wouldn’t become tangled if she dropped her head to graze. She removed the dangling lead shank from Leggy’s halter and, satisfied that her horses were temporarily accident-proof, climbed over the half-door. “Don’t you move, ladies,” she ordered the nervous mares.
In the gloom she spotted an old pitchfork leaning against the far wall. It was rusty, but the handle was firmly attached and it had all its tines. She quickly went to work, aware that another bolt of lightning would set off Leggy. If she jumped the fence and made a run for it . . . Abby didn’t even want to speculate on the kinds of trouble the young mare could get herself into. She kept digging.
“Okay, girls, I think we’re in business,” Abby said to the mares, who had their heads over the door watching her work. She pulled at the door, scraping it open enough for a horse to enter. Moonie, followed closely by Leggy, burst into the dry shed and away from the storm. Leggy immediately shook herself off and lay down for a roll. She scratched her back happily on the bedding, then stood and shook again, sending old straw and dust everywhere. Abby chuckled, delighted to have everyone safely under cover.
She untacked Moonie, propping her saddle against a post and hanging the bridle over a nail on the wall. She draped the saddle pad over an old barrel to let it dry. The leather would be a mess to clean, she thought, and her riding hat was soaked. In fact, all her clothes were soaked, and she was feeling the chill. She took off her riding hat and hung it on another nail. She shook the rain off her windbreaker and hung it over the handle of the upright pitchfork. Hopping up and down and rubbing her arms didn’t help much. “What I need is a blanket,” Abby said to Cody, as if he’d understand. He stared at her earnestly, intent on deciphering her meaning.
Moonie lay down on her side and rubbed her coat in the dusty straw. She rolled back and forth until all the water had been absorbed.
