his head. “Issie, you’re worrying unnecessarily. Storm is fine, finish your dinner.”
It had been the strangest day. Never in her wildest dreams had Issie expected to be in such a strong position after the dressage phase. Her test on Victory had also put her right up there in contention, sitting in eighth place on a score of 39.5.
The real test of courage and ability would come tomorrow. She had put on a brave face in front of Tom and argued that she had to take the Vicarage Ditch head-on. But underneath her bravado, she was worried about her horses too.
She had never lost a horse on the cross-country course, but that didn’t mean she didn’t understand Avery’s pain. She had suffered the same heartbreak – many years ago now – when she had the accident with Mystic.
It had been the day of the Chevalier Point Pony Club Gymkhana, Issie’s first-ever competition. Mystic, her beloved pony, had been a total star all day long. The little swaybacked dapple-grey was getting on in years, but he was still a keen jumper and they had just taken out a ribbon in the showjumping class when it happened.
Chevalier Point’s resident brat, Natasha Tucker, furious that she’d failed to take first place, had thrown a tantrum and used her whip to take a swipe at her poor pony, Goldrush.
Issie had looked on in horror as the terrified Goldrush backed away from Natasha to escape and barged into Stella’s horse Coco and Kate’s gelding Toby, who were tied to a nearby horse truck. The next thing Issie knew, the ponies had pulled loose in fright and bolted, along with Goldrush, heading for the pony-club gates.
As people began to run after the horses, trying to divert them before they reached the main road, Issie realised they’d never catch them in time on foot. But maybe she could stop them on Mystic.
By the time she caught up the ponies were on the main road. Issie had taken one look at the cars whizzing past and then made the fateful decision to follow them. Every moment that the ponies were on that road their lives were in danger, but if she could ride around and herd them back, she might be able to drive them on to the gravel road back to the pony-club grounds.
Her plan worked. She had managed to get the ponies to safety and she was just about to get off the road too when she heard the deep low boom of the truck horn.
As Mystic turned to confront the truck, rising up on his hindquarters, he threw Issie off his back. The last thing she remembered was the sickening screech of the truck tyres and the horrific sound of her pony’s terrified whinny. Then her helmet hit the tarmac and everything went black.
In the hospital she woke up with her mother beside her bed, and it was only then that she discovered what had happened. The grey gelding had thrown her clear but it had cost him his life. Mystic was dead.
In the weeks that followed Issie became consumed by grief. Her loss overwhelmed her and she never thought she would be capable of loving another pony ever again.
And then Avery had brought her Blaze. He was working for Horse Welfare and the chestnut mare was a rescue pony that had been placed in his care. When Issie caught sight of the emaciated, terrified mare at the River Paddock she didn’t have the heart to turn her away.
Slowly, the broken-spirited mare and the broken-hearted girl began to heal each other and Issie fell in love with Blaze. But she never forgot Mystic. In her heart, she never let him go and the bond between her and the grey pony proved to be more special than Issie had ever imagined.
When Mystic first turned up to help her – alive and real, a flesh-and-blood pony and not some ghostly apparition – Issie should have been astonished, but instead she accepted his presence straight away. She had wished so hard for him to still be there with her, that when he actually came back she never questioned it. They were meant to be together.
In the years that followed, whenever Issie or her horses were in trouble, Mystic would come to her. He was her guardian, her protector and her secret.
While the horses had luxury accommodation at Badminton, Issie and her team weren’t quite so well off. Their horse truck was comfortable enough to live in for a few days, but it was a little cramped with four people in it. Avery and his wife Francoise had the double bed in the cavity above the driver’s cab, Stella had created a makeshift bed on the banquette seat next to the kitchen table, and Issie was out at the back in the part of the horse truck where the horses themselves usually travelled, on a camping cot bed. It wasn’t exactly the Plaza Hotel, but it suited Issie just fine. She loved the sweet smell of horses and the quiet chirp of crickets right outside as she lay there, trying to get to sleep.
With the cross-country starting at seven-thirty in the morning, an early night was crucial. As Issie had two horses to compete, the organisers had split up her two rides at either end of the day. Her early start was on Storm. The big bay was due in the ten-minute box a little before eight a.m. Victory was her second ride, with a late allocated start time of one-thirty p.m.
Although Nightstorm wasn’t due in the box until nearly eight, their day would start much earlier. Stella would be up and grooming him before sunrise and Issie would be down at the stables not long after that. After the exhausting day she’d just had, Issie desperately needed a good night’s sleep. Of course, just when you need it most, that’s when sleep refuses to do the business. For almost an hour she lay in her cot bed, thinking about the day’s events. She was finally beginning to relax, could feel drowsiness overwhelming her, when she heard hoofbeats.
Convinced that the sounds were nothing more than echoes from the stables on the other side of the competitors’ park, she ignored them and tried once more to sleep. But in a moment of clarity she sat up, suddenly wide awake. The hoofbeats were too close. They couldn’t be coming from the stables.
And then she heard another sound, quite distinct. It was the soft nicker of a horse and it was right outside!
Padding over to the back of the truck in pyjamas and bare feet, Issie pushed open the canvas flap at the rear by the ramp and peered out. It was dark, but there were a few lights on in the competitors’ park, providing enough illumination for her to see. There was a horse standing just a few metres away.
Eventing horses tended to be solidly built and at least sixteen hands high. By comparison, the swaybacked grey pony in front of her was tiny, no more than fourteen hands. He stared at her with coal-black eyes, standing so still that he looked like a marble statue. Then he shook his long mane and the statue was suddenly alive and impatient. The gelding gave a snort as if to say, ‘Come on! What’s keeping you? Let’s go already!’ Issie couldn’t believe it.
It was Mystic.
Chapter 3
Mystic stamped a hoof impatiently against the gravel and looked up at Issie, his dark eyes making his intent quite clear. They needed to leave now.
“OK, wait!” Issie ducked back inside the canvas flap and hunted frantically for a pair of boots. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t think straight – the fact that Mystic was here now meant that one or both of her horses must be in real trouble. She began to panic. They needed to go now!
There
